


All This and Heaven, Too

by meansgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of kissing, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Characters with PTSD, Dating, Declarations Of Love, Draco is mouthy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, First Time, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Future Fic, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Harry Potter shows up a little, Healing Sex, Healthy Relationships, Kissing, Kittens, Luna Lovegood is the best, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Injuries, Mistaken Identity, Neville has a praise kink, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pansy Parkinson is the best, Post-War, Praise Kink, Rimming, Rough Body Play, Switching, Therapy, post-war politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 103,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: Neville's mind tells him that clearly this was a wizard he slept with, that a glamor must have been involved. Otherwise, an entirely different man has swapped places with the one Neville fell asleep beside, and that would be extremely concerning. The man rolls to his back and stretches, his eyes closed tight. Neville’s mouth drops open. That profile…“Malfoy?”***A mistaken identity and a one night stand lead to a weekend that will fundamentally change the way Draco Malfoy chooses to live his life. (This is very much a love story).





	1. Chapter 1

_The flat wasn’t made for this_ , Neville thinks as he cracks into a table with his hip, wincing into the kiss. His companion laughs, one hand reaching down to soothe the smarting spot with a gentle hand.

“This place is a shoebox,” he drawls, biting lightly at Neville’s neck, quick and teasing. “Is there a bedroom, or is this the whole of it?”

Neville huffs, tugging on the other man’s belt loops to guide him around furniture and toward Neville’s bedroom. “There are three, and one of them is mine. I’m trying to get us there, but you keep--” he grunts as they tip sideways into the arm of the sofa. “You keep getting in the way.”

The words are lost in another biting kiss. The man--Neville feels vaguely awful, he doesn’t actually know his name, couldn’t really catch it over the noise of the bar--pushes, and they tumble back onto the manky sofa cushions. Neville’s flatmates found the thing at a second hand store, and it smells like an old woman’s wardrobe. A spring jabs into Neville’s back as the man--Merlin, he can’t keep thinking _the man_ , what was his name? Brian? Brent? Brandon? Byron?--straddles his hips.

 _Let’s go with Byron,_ Neville thinks. _Like the muggle poet._

Byron is cute. Quite a bit shorter than Neville, but stocky. He has light brown hair that flops into his face in an attractively ruffled way. Neville supposes he could be described as _rugged_. Neville thinks he might be a student at one of the muggle universities nearby, but he’s not sure. The bar was _really_ loud, and if Neville’s honest with himself, he wasn’t really trying to get to know anyone tonight. But then, it doesn’t seem like Byron is, either. The goal here is pretty clear.

“You’re so _fit_ ,” Byron says. He runs a hand down Neville’s chest and then back up to hook into the collar of his t-shirt.

“Thank you,” Neville says, then grins because he does so like hearing an English accent. “ _Fit,_ ” he echoes. “I haven’t heard an accent like yours much around here. It’s nice. Feels like I’m home.”

Byron snorts. “What would an American have said?” He drops his voice low and flattens his vowels, lends a twang to his voice that’s more southern than the voices around this part of the country. “You’re damn good-lookin’.” Then he affects a slouch, rocking back to rest on Neville’s thighs. He flicks his long-ish brown hair out of his eyes and puts on a stereotypical surfer voice. “You’re, like, so hot, dude.”

Neville laughs. Byron has Neville’s shirt rucked up to his armpits, and is running light, teasing fingers over his chest. Neville’s muscles jump, ticklish.

“You’re good at that,” Neville breathes.

Byron looks up from his perusal of Neville’s torso and quirks an eyebrow. For a fleeting moment, his features are vaguely familiar.

“Good at what?” Byron asks. “Tickling your abs?”

Neville jumps with an embarrassing squeak when Byron’s short, calloused fingers dig hard into his side. “No,” he gasps. “Impressions.”

“Picked it up at school,” Byron says absently. He shifts back, sliding his arse down Neville’s legs so he can bend forward and press his mouth where his fingers just touched.

“I was ugly in school,” Neville blurts.

“I find that hard to believe,” Byron mutters, making quick work of Neville’s button and zipper.

Neville’s hips twitch up as Byron’s tongue works its way around his belly button and his hand brushes just shy of the place Neville wants it to be, but Byron casually holds him still and slides his lips further down to the waistband of Neville’s underwear, peeking out from his undone fly.

“I was,” Neville insists. He moans as Byron presses his palm over the hard curve of Neville’s cock beneath his pants and traces his tongue along the line of hair that runs from just below Neville’s belly button, disappearing into his pants.

Byron straightens up and tugs until the jeans and pants are pulled down just enough. “No, really,” he says. “There’s no way you were _ugly_.”

Byron’s hand wraps around Neville’s cock and Neville arches into the touch. “Awkward, then,” he says. “A bit chubby.”

Neville can’t say what has him so chatty at this late hour, when really all he was aiming for was a halfway decent shag, but something about Byron, now that they’re in the quiet of Neville’s empty flat and can actually _hear_ each other, makes him want to babble.

Byron shrugs. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Maybe,” Neville murmurs, then shoves himself up on his elbows. “You should take your clothes off. Also, my bedroom is somewhere over there.”

Byron smirks and gives Neville’s cock a twisting stroke that has him groaning, letting his head fall back. “You seem fine right here,” Byron says. “What’s the matter? Flatmates likely to walk in at any moment?”

“No. They’re both off at their girlfriends’ tonight.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

Neville stills Byron’s hand with his own and sits up, using his other hand to pull Byron forward into a kiss. “More room in my bed, for one.”

Byron kisses him back, hard, his wicked tongue teasing. His teeth nip at Neville’s lower lip and then along his jaw. “That’s probably true,” Byron says. “I could really spread you out, there.”

With a sudden burst of confidence, Neville knocks Byron a bit to the side, just enough so Neville can get him off his legs and get up on his knees. It gives him the upper hand, finally, and he pulls Byron close.

“Or maybe I want to lay you out,” Neville says, close to Byron’s ear. Byron’s hair is soft and fine, and it tickles Neville’s face. “I could pick you up and carry you there. You’re tiny.”

“I’m _not_!” Byron squawks, and something is _so_ familiar there, really, but Neville can’t dwell on it, because he’s too busy swooping in to grab Byron by the waist, tugging him up into his arms as he stands up from the sofa.

Byron protests and smacks at Neville’s shoulders, but he’s laughing, wrapping his thighs around Neville’s waist, then cackling as Neville’s pants and jeans slip down around his knees.

“Oh for--” Neville sorely wishes he could banish the damn things away, but Byron’s a muggle, so he can’t. He hitches Byron up a bit and tries to walk. It works, though it’s more a waddle. “Shut up, you,” he grumbles.

Byron is in hysterics, snorting and giggling into Neville’s neck. “Not very smooth, are you?”

“Shut it,” Neville says good-naturedly, waddling them around the sofa and toward the open door to his bedroom. “This is your fault.”

“It is,” Byron agrees, then affects a higher, breathier voice. “Punish me, I’ve been very naughty.”

Neville squeezes his arse with one hand and says, “Oh, I will,” then kicks the bedroom door shut behind them.

 

***

 

In the morning, Neville’s eyes open to muted sunlight and fluttering curtains. He vaguely remembers throwing up the sash to share a muggle cigarette out that window in the wee hours last night. There’s a warm body up against his back, and slow breaths puffing over his skin.

So, Byron had stayed. He’d wanted to leave at some obscene hour, a bit twitchy all of a sudden. Neville had told him it was fine if he wanted to go, but he’d like it if he stayed. Byron had said he needed to be somewhere fairly early. Neville had offered to set an alarm, then fix them both a decent meal in the morning. Byron had agreed, but a bit shiftily. Neville had expected to wake up alone.

A quick glance at the clock on his bedside table tells Neville that he’s awake more than a full hour ahead of the alarm. _That’s nice_ , he thinks, and rolls over to see if Byron is the type of bloke who likes a cuddle in the morning.

Neville blinks. His eyes are still a bit blurry with sleep, but the man lying next to him in bed is on his side, slim back to Neville, with a sheet of shoulder-length blonde hair swept back and across the pillow. He’s pale-- _very_ much so--and has pointy shoulders, sharp elbows, a long neck--

Neville recalls having a good number of bourbons the previous night, but at no point was he _drunk_. He knows he remembers Byron accurately. Neville is sure he went to bed with a smallish but sturdy-looking, short-haired brunette last night.

Neville squints. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself, then reaches out to touch the shoulder of the man in front of him. “Er...hello?”

The man stirs, but doesn’t wake, so Neville nudges him just a tad more firmly. Byron (Neville can only assume this is still Byron. His mind tells him that clearly this is a wizard he's slept with, that _clearly_ a glamor was involved. Otherwise, an entirely different man has swapped places with the one Neville fell asleep beside, and that would be _extremely_ concerning) rolls to his back and stretches, his eyes closed tight. Neville’s mouth drops open. That profile…

Byron turns onto his side to face Neville, letting out a little sound of protest. “‘M sleeping,” he grouches.

Neville’s face _burns_. That voice is--it’s--

“ _Malfoy_?”

Byron’s eyes snap open, and Neville gasps. He has a flash of memory, of Byron’s warm brown eyes as he winked at Neville from a couple seats down the bar last night. The eyes looking back at him now are icy grey.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Malfoy squawks, and rolls away and out of the bed. “Oh my god.”

Neville sits up.

Yes, that is in fact Draco Malfoy scrambling naked out of Neville’s bed at five in the morning. In America. Four years since the last time Neville saw him, ghost-white and looking terrified beside his mother as he was lead away from Hogwarts in bonds.

“Wait--” Neville puts up a hand, and Draco Malfoy pauses with his hand hovering over a shirt on the floor. “That’s my shirt.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Draco Malfoy spits. “Where is _my_ shirt? How do you know me? Did… am I being watched? They’ve sent-- have they sent you to ch-check up on me? W _here is my shirt?_ ”

Neville thinks to cover himself with the sheet as he gets out of bed, too. It wouldn’t do to have whatever this conversation is with his cock hanging out.

“I don’t know where your shirt is,” he says calmly, like he’s speaking to a particularly fussy vine. “Calm down, Malfoy.”

Draco Malfoy sits down on the floor and draws his knees up to cover his naked body. He looks up at Neville with wide eyes that keep darting toward the door. He’s like a rabbit preparing to flee from a fox, and Neville can’t quite square this in his mind. He reaches to the end of the bed for a throw blanket and tosses it to Draco _bloody_ Malfoy, who snatches it and wraps it around his shoulders.

“Do you not know who I am?” Neville asks and sinks down to the floor to sit down across from Malfoy, keeping a respectful distance so as not to spook him. “I...did I not tell you my name last night?”

“I couldn’t hear it over the music in the bar,” Malfoy admits, avoiding Neville’s eyes. “I gave you a fake name, obviously. Brennan.”

“ _Oh!_ ” Neville smacks a hand to his forehead. “Brennan, yes, I....I think I spent the night calling you _Byron_ in my head, sorry.”

Malfoy blinks at him. A line appears between his delicate white eyebrows as he considers Neville for a long moment. Then, Malfoy’s face seems to melt from one expression to another as his mouth gapes open in shock. “Wait. You’re not...you couldn’t _possibly_ be--”

“I can’t look _that_ different from when we were at school, can I?”

“ _Longbottom_?”

Neville chuckles, a nervous convulsion of a laugh, and waves with the hand not holding a sheet halfway up his torso. “Hi.”

Malfoy covers his face with his hands, which causes the loose blanket to fall off one elegant shoulder. Neville clears his throat anxiously, wanting to reach out and fix it for him, but Malfoy isn’t paying attention to him. Neville clenches his hands in his lap.

“All I wanted was a shag,” Malfoy says into his hands. “Just a simple thing, with a total stranger, with a _muggle_ stranger who couldn’t possibly know. Someone who couldn’t recognize me. And you-- _you_ seem like a muggle, why _is_ that?”

Neville blinks back at Malfoy, who has dropped his hands and is looking at Neville, furious, with splotches of red across his cheeks.

Neville draws in a sharp breath, suddenly transported back in time. For a split second, he’s ready to curl in on himself, to prepare for some excoriating comment from Draco Malfoy, who hates and belittles him at every turn.

But nothing else is said. Malfoy just stares at him, so clearly confused and afraid. Neville can breathe again. He remembers when and where and _who_ he is, and clears his throat.

“I-- Wait, no, sorry.” Neville says, struggling to his feet and barely managing to bring his sheet with him. He steps on it and it yanks down, practically off his hips. He struggles with it before realizing it’s his own foot making it impossible.

With a frustrated growl, he drops the entire thing. “Right. It’s nothing you haven’t seen already, so. Right.” Neville nods decisively. “Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. I’m going to put on some pants now. And then I’ll be making breakfast, with coffee. I need a coffee, and I think you might do as well, so. Excuse me. I believe your pants are on that lampshade over there. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

Neville musters up every ounce of courage he’s got, which is funny because in recent years he’s taken to pretending he’s some sort of swotty arrogant arsehole _like Draco Malfoy_ when he needs to be superficially brave. He keeps his head up as he walks naked past a gaping Malfoy to the doorway, where he fishes his pants out of his jeans and takes them out into the living room. He steps into them as he walks, yanking the elastic up with a snap just as he makes it to the tiny breakfast bar which holds the muggle coffee machine.

He leans forward with his hands there on the countertop and breathes for a moment. Another thing Neville has taken to doing in recent years is talking to himself when he’s at loose ends.

“You cut the head off a bloody great evil snake, with a bloody great magical sword. You’re _fine._ ”

From behind him, a throat clears.

“I read about that,” Malfoy says quietly from the doorway of the bedroom. “Well done, you.”

Neville looks back over his shoulder and forces a tight smile. “Thanks, I suppose.”

He turns away and casts his eyes heavenward and asks for yet more strength, then fishes in the junk drawer for a roll of tape. It’s charmed to go unnoticed by his muggle flatmates, and when Neville’s fingers close around it, the transfiguration comes off and he’s holding his wand in his hand. He flicks it at the coffee maker and then toward the refrigerator and stove, muttering spells that have become just slightly less second-nature since he started living with muggles a few months ago.

“Listen. Longbottom--”

“No,” Neville interrupts. “Coffee. That comes before whatever this is going to be. Alright?”

Malfoy clears his throat again. “Yes, alright.”

“How do you take it?”

“What?”

Neville looks over at Malfoy again. He’s still hovering near the sofa, clad only in his underwear and a white t-shirt that is very definitely one of Neville’s. He looks, Neville is horrified to admit even in his own mind, _delicious_.

Neville coughs. “Your coffee.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “Of course. Milk, no sugar. Please.”

Neville nods toward the sofa. “We haven’t got a table here. I’ll bring it over.”

“Right.” Malfoy twists his fingers in the hem of Neville’s t-shirt, which is far too big for him, and goes to sit. He seems to pause for a moment, staring at the sofa as if it confuses him. “This is a hideous piece of furniture,” he says absently.

“It is, isn’t it?” Neville summons the mugs and the milk and has both coffees in hand in moments. He should’ve done it the muggle way and bought himself more time to stall. He hands one off to Malfoy, who takes it with a tentative, grimacing smile.

Neville sits, and they consider each other from opposite ends of the sofa. After a moment, Neville coughs and decides that, as host, it’s going to be his responsibility to start this off.

“I’m here on a research fellowship,” he offers. One hand rubs nervously at his leg, and he stills it by wrapping it around his mug. “I’ve been studying to become a Master Herbologist, and a few months ago I was invited to come work at Salem with Oleander Bucket and Marva Twigg. I… took too long to accept, and lost my space in student housing. Lodging in Salem proper is expensive, so I found a couple of muggles who were looking for a flatmate, and so I live like a muggle. That’s why I seem like a muggle, as you said.”

“Ah.” Malfoy isn’t looking at Neville, and hasn’t done since Neville sat down. His eyes seem to catalogue the flat, skipping from thing to thing. “It’s...nice?”

Neville scoffs. “It certainly _isn’t_ , but my flatmates, Ashley and Marcus, are. So it works out.”

“I’m sure,” Malfoy murmurs. He hasn’t taken so much as a sip of his coffee, but Neville gulps at his.

“So?”

“So, what?”

Neville tries an encouraging smile. “So what were you doing in a muggle bar in Salem last night?”

“Oh, that.” Malfoy shrugs. “I live here. Ish. In Boston. I go to a muggle University, and I mostly frequent muggle bars, so. That’s what I was doing there.”

“With a glamour on?”

“Polyjuice.”

“Ah.” Neville nods. “So that’s why you were so keen to leave.”

“Sorry.”

Neville sighs and leans forward to set his mug down on the coffee table. He slides a bit closer to Malfoy and tries to duck down and catch his eyes. “It’s… it’s fine. I suppose you’re trying to stay a bit low key these days?”

Malfoy makes an exasperated sound and puts down his coffee too. He finally looks Neville in the face, angling his body so they face each other full-on. “Yes, of course I am. Frankly, I wish I could be _Brennan_ all the time. Better some boring, harmless Muggle than...Well. You know what I am.”

Malfoy’s eyes flick to his own left arm, and Neville’s follow suit. It’s bare, unmarked.

“Not anymore,” Neville comments.

“Incorrect,” Malfoy snaps. “I may have signed my soul away to the Ministry to get it taken off, but as far as they’re concerned, I’ll _always_ be the stupid thing I did when I was seventeen. I will _always_ be that. You fucked that, last night. Are you disgusted?”

Neville, having leaned away from the increasing intensity of Malfoy’s voice, forces himself to relax. He sighs. “First of all, you fell asleep before anyone fucked anyone.”

Malfoy chokes on a disbelieving laugh. “Don’t _joke_.”

“It’s true,” Neville says easily. “Listen, I didn’t know it was you I was...doing all of that with. But you didn’t know I was me, either. No harm, no foul. I’m sure you would never have-- if you had known who I was, that is.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy drops the eye contact again. He picks at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa.

“Anyway, I’m saying I’m not disgusted. What I am is starving. Breakfast?”

Malfoy looks at Neville as if he’s lost his mind. “What in Merlin’s name do you mean, _breakfast_?”

Neville can’t help but smile, the indignation is so familiar and, without the layers of fear and anxiety of his school years, a bit funny.

“I told you last night I’d cook something for you in the morning,” Neville says with a shrug. “It’s only polite, you know. Bring a nice bloke home, have a nice shag, you don’t just throw him out in the morning. It’s not done.”

Malfoy just stares, so Neville gets up and heads to the kitchen. He’s already got the pans heated and eggs cracking over bowls, so he snatches up his wand and summons cheese and a grater as well and sets those to working. He’s nearly ready to flip the first omelette when he hears Malfoy clear his throat behind him again.

Neville glances over his shoulder and sees that Malfoy is fiddling with the coffee pot. The throat clearing seems to be a bit of a nervous tic, not a way to get Neville’s attention, so he turns back to his work at the cooktop. He’s nearly finished when Malfoy makes that sound again.

“Alright?”

“Sorry,” Malfoy says softly. “I just. It’s nice to watch someone doing that.”

“Cooking breakfast?”

“Magic.”

Neville works hard not to react to that, just dishes up the eggs and summons toast out of the toaster and butter from the fridge. He floats all of it to the coffee table, then reaches past Malfoy for the coffee pot. “Refresh your coffee?”

Malfoy nods silently, and they make their way back to the sofa.

It’s not one of the top three most awkward breakfasts Neville has ever had, but it’s up there. There is a long period of silence in which Neville isn’t sure either of them will ever speak. But then he shakes himself and decides he’s going to need to be the one to push.

“Do you live…” Neville starts. “That is, are you-- Only, you said, about magic--”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Malfoy mutters, and things are so strange that Malfoy’s sharp edges are something of a comfort. Malfoy shrugs and says, “I can’t perform unsupervised magic, but I’m not living like a complete squib or anything.”

“So the muggle university?”

“There’s a wizarding counterpart, yes. I am permitted to study there, with limitations, and in the muggle program, provided I meet Ministry requirements for my... _probation._ ” Malfoy’s lip curls. “And so long as the Americans are satisfied that I’m not some sort of terrorist.”

“Well,” Neville says before he can stop himself. “To be fair.”

Malfoy snorts and drops his fork, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. He laughs, and reaches for his coffee. “God, Longbottom. You’ve gotten bold, haven’t you?”

“No,” Neville says easily. “This isn’t boldness, I’m just awkward and tactless. You don’t know, because we’ve never had a real conversation in our lives.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Malfoy agrees, his voice gone soft again. He sips his coffee and sighs. “Anyway, you’re right. I was part of a terrorist organization. They know it, and they never let me forget it, and that’s fair enough. Besides, I’m going to come out of this with a degree in muggle finance and enough credits that I can pursue a mastership later if I choose. If a wizarding university will take me, when all is said and done. And if it won’t, I can always become a rich muggle.”

Neville can hear the fear that runs beneath the flippant words. It makes him uneasy to think of Draco Malfoy living as some sort of muggle banker, in some muggle flat like this one (albeit much nicer).

“And how much time is left?” Neville asks eventually, when it’s clear Draco isn’t going to say anything more.

“One year.”

“You’re being made to spend five years with limited access to magic?” Neville boggles. “Christ, Malfoy.”

“It’s less than most got, and better than I deserve,” Malfoy intones. He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m surprised you don’t know all of this, it was all over the papers.”

“My Gran banned the Prophet from our house after the war,” Neville says. “Said the press had lost her trust, and if everyone else had anything resembling brains, they’d steer clear of that claptrap as well.”

“I remember her from before,” Malfoy says. He’s tucked back into his eggs, and Neville is pleased to see it. Malfoy’s too thin, he thinks. “My mother loathed having to share the presidency of the Daughters of the First War with her. She was always horridly judgmental about the place settings at mother’s teas. It was funny. How is she?”

“Ah.” Neville sets down his fork. “She died last year,” he says. “Caught Black Cat Flu the year after the war, forgot to get her innoculation what with everything going on, and couldn’t shake it. Her lungs were scarred from childhood, from the First War, so.”

“Sorry,” Malfoy says.

He has abandoned his food as well, so Neville quickly picks his own fork up again, and impulsively reaches over to nudge Malfoy’s hand with his. Malfoy looks genuinely sorry, even. But Neville doesn’t want or need him to be, and besides, he really wants Malfoy to eat for some reason.

“S’Alright. Finish your breakfast. I don’t mind talking about Gran. But to be honest, it’s a bit weird to be doing that while I’m sitting around in my pants with the bloke I sort of shagged just hours ago, so let’s not.”

“Of course,” Malfoy agrees quickly, picking up his fork. He pauses with it over his plate and winces. “Merlin’s _balls_ , last night.”

Neville laughs around a mouthful of toast, then swallows clumsily with a hand over his mouth when he nearly chokes.

“Yeah,” he manages when he’s sure he’ll be able to breathe again. “A lot happened last night, didn’t it? You looked different, though. How did you get polyjuice if you’re so closely supervised? I could be wrong, but it seems like something they wouldn’t want you to have.”

Malfoy eats his eggs and doesn’t answer. Neville shrugs and finishes his toast, then settles back with his coffee in both hands again so he doesn’t fidget and look like an awkward berk. He draws up a leg, gets comfortable, and turns so he can watch Malfoy.

Finally, Malfoy takes one last bite of egg and sits back with a groan. “God, _food_.”

Neville just waits. When Malfoy finally turns toward him again he raises his eyebrows and waits some more.

“Oh, _fine_.” Malfoy huffs. “I nicked it. Alright? I steal polyjuice, and I steal hair from whatever muggle is convenient and reasonably attractive, and I go out. And no, they wouldn’t like me doing that at all.”

“Sounds a bit risky for someone on a terrorist watch list, Malfoy.”

“Last night I had your cock in my mouth and I gave you one of my cigarettes, I think we can be on a first name basis,” he snaps. “Yes, of course it’s risky, but I’m trying to keep from losing my entire bloody mind, so my choices are my choices, thank you.”

“Fine,” Neville laughs. “ _Draco_. So do you keep your head by pulling strangers in muggle bars?”

“Not necessarily, _Neville_ ,” Draco replies snippily, but his face almost immediately softens again. “Actually, I never do. I mostly just go out, move around, knowing I’m getting away with something. It was impossible to do anything like this in the beginning, but as long as I’m not actively performing spells, which they have a trace on, no one seems to care much what I do these days. If I’m Brennan, which is a ridiculous name I stole from an idiot on the rowing team at my school, I’m practically anonymous.”

“And what made you change your pattern last night? Did you really think, this morning, that I was someone sent to track you? Do you think the Aurors send men out with orders to sex up war criminals in order to keep tabs on their whereabouts?”

“I was _panicking_ ,” Draco says witheringly, eyes narrowed. “And I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to go home with you. It was too late to call my minder to authorize a floo or portkey, and bloody Salem is a bit of a haul from Boston.”

“I understand,” Neville says easily. “I was convenient, then?”

“You-- Don’t _fish_ , it’s gauche.”

Neville laughs at that, he can’t help it. He lets his head fall back against the sofa. “You’re such a posh bastard. Some things really never change.”

“Yes, well,” Draco grumbles. “You bloody well know what you look like now. And I’m sorry but yes, you were also convenient.”

“I’m not offended,” Neville says seriously. “Really, the blowjob was more than adequate compensation. But you tried to leave at two in the morning. Where would you have gone?”

“The portkey station near the college opens at four, and I could’ve waited there for an acceptable time to call my minder. Even after I said I’d stay, I fully planned on sneaking out before the potion wore off. I apologize, by the way, if I haven’t already, for the...unpleasant surprise.”

Neville huffs. “I’ve made it clear that I’m not upset. Or, I thought I had.”

“You should be, though, don’t be stupid.” Draco leans his cheek against the back of the sofa, and for long moments, they just stare at each other.

“Want another go?” Neville asks on a whim.

“A-- I’m sorry, a _what_?”

“Since you stayed and all, and we’ve had breakfast, and a nice chat, would you like to have another go?” Neville speaks the last words slowly, then adds, “With me, that is?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“And a bit cocky, don’t you think?”

Neville smiles. “I’m not cocky, I’m just not easily flustered.”

“You used to _stutter_.”

“Bloody great snake, bloody great sword, I grew out of it.”

Draco sits frozen, eyes flicking over Neville’s face and then down his body, which Neville realizes is fairly scantily clad, still.

“But,” Draco says slowly. “You know who I am now. You should _hate_ me, I was a complete _prick_ to you.”

“Yeah, and you also joined up with an evil snakeface who tried to take over the world,” Neville replies. “Then last night you did _insane_ things with your tongue and it was great. Want to do it again?”

Draco leans away and screws up his face. “Is this some sort of set up?”

Neville finally has enough then. He throws up his hands, slapping them back down on his thighs. “My god, Malfoy.  _Draco_. Pull yourself together. Look around--I’m crammed into a very tiny flat with two other very loud people, and I spend ninety percent of my time either with my hands in dirt or reading boring texts about what to do with the dirt once you’ve got your hands in it.” He motions around with his hands. Draco blinks at him as he rants on. “I’m not much of a fan of Salem, but I’ve got no one back home to miss, really. I went out last night to pull. I’ve done it _loads_ of times, but last night was the _best_. And it turns out you’re not only a passably handsome bloke with an accent that feels familiar and good, but you know about all of it, _everything_ that happened. It’s. It’s not _nice_. Nice isn’t the right word. But it’s something. And you’re gorgeous, which doesn’t hurt.”

With that, Neville  stands up and banishes their plates to the sink. Draco, wide-eyed, watches his every move.

“After the war I decided to stop being afraid,” Neville says, nervously fiddling with his wand but forcing himself to look Draco in the face. “I decided to just _do_ things and not overthink it. I worried about every little thing, doubted myself at every turn, my whole life, and it didn’t work. It turns out that while I’m awkward and forgetful and I worry a lot, I’m not an idiot. That may come as a surprise to you, but it stopped being a surprise to me ages ago. I know what I’m doing. So, come on. I’m taking a shower, and you should too.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

Draco makes a face Neville can’t begin to interpret. Through all of this, he has watched Neville with what seems like fascination--or at the very least, interest. Now, he appears to have processed what Neville’s been trying to tell him. He nods. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Neville wishes he could keep the pleased surprise off his face.

“Yes, _fine_ ,” Draco snaps, and stands up. “Direct me to what I’m sure are subpar facilities.”

“Oh, please,” Neville laughs, heading to the bathroom with a wave over his shoulder for Draco to follow. “As if you’re living in a mansion these days.”

“You don’t know,” Draco says snottily, his voice close behind. “I could be.”

Neville opens the door to the bathroom and turns, grabbing Draco by the hand to tug him inside. “I suppose you could.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco says, “a _tub_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, to Bel for the beta :)

Neville had vague plans for the shower and the things they could get up to in there, but Draco’s obvious longing for a bath immediately puts those thoughts to the side. There’s no way they’ll both fit, though, so he runs hot water and stops the drain, and says, “You can get in in just a moment.”

Draco balks. “But--”

“I’ll shower off when you’re finished,” Neville says, eyes on the water as he pours some cheap muggle shower gel in. “Just. Just get in the tub.”

“No, I--”

“Draco,” Neville says, hoping his tone brooks no argument.

It works. Draco throws his hands up. “Alright, _fine!”_

Neville blinks and mentally shakes himself. This is, without a doubt, the strangest morning _ever._

Once Draco is ensconced among the bubbles, which unfortunately smell of chemical strawberry and vanilla, Neville takes a seat on the closed toilet lid and picks up a book his flatmates keep on the back of the tank.

“You’re just going to read?”

Neville shrugs. “Do you want to talk about the past some more?”

“No.”

“Alright, then.”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“You seem like you could use it.”

Draco subsides, slumping down into the bubbles. A long silence stretches between them while Neville blindly pages through the book in his hands. He can’t possibly focus on the words, but it gives him a cover while he quietly panics at himself.

 _What am I doing?_ He thinks. _Am I going to keep Draco Malfoy in my house all weekend like some sort of concubine?_

Neville turns a page.

_Yes._

He clears his throat and flicks his eyes to Draco, whose head is tipped back, and whose eyes are closed. Neville doesn’t have a type. Or, at least, he’s never thought about it. But he wonders at his own reaction to Draco Malfoy’s soft, pale skin and fine, pale hair. _Draco Malfoy._

 _It’s probably fine,_ Neville thinks. _It was good last night. It can be good today._ _Just a bit of fun._

Draco sighs. “It’s a bit weird, you just sitting there pretending to read that book.”

Neville looks up and snaps the book shut. “Yeah, it is.”

“Come over here.”

Neville obeys without a thought, sliding to the floor and discarding the book somewhere off to the side. He kneels forward in the narrow space, and leans his forearms against the edge of the bathtub. “Yes?”

“God,” Draco laughs, reaching out and touching his shoulder. “You really _are_ fit.”

“Thanks,” Neville murmurs. He leans forward a bit more, and Draco sits up in the bath.

They kiss, but it’s practically chaste, just a press, the hint of tongue against Neville’s lower lip. They pull apart.

“Do you have a cloth or something?” Draco asks.

Neville is distracted by the sparkle of Draco’s pale eyelashes against his cheeks. “Hmm?”

“To wash with.”

“Right.” Neville reaches up to a hook on the shower wall and holds up the blue loofah that belongs to him.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a muggle thing,” Neville says. “It’s nice, I promise. Here, budge up a bit.”

Neville squeezes more chemical-scented gel onto the puff and lathers it up. He goes about washing along Draco’s shoulders without fanfare. Draco stiffens and jerks to the side, but there’s nowhere to go in the small tub. Neville holds up the loofah, soap suds dripping down his wrist.

“What are you doing?” Draco snaps.

“Sorry.” Neville holds his hand out. “Here, I didn’t mean to presume.”

Draco's eyes dart between the loofah and Neville's face. “You can do it,” he blurts, then winces. “I suppose.”

Neville huffs a laugh. “Okay. Sure?”

Draco nods silently, and Neville decides to just go for it before he changes his mind. It’s nice, doing this for someone. It’s...sexy. Neville doesn’t engage in intimacy, much. Not because he has a rule about it or anything. Sure, he’s taken to pulling in bars and one night stands since he got his bearings after the war. But it’s mostly because he’s been in places where he doesn’t really know anyone, while also dealing with more than he thought he could handle. His parents’ deaths immediately after the war, then later his Gran; studying for his NEWT’s a year late; getting into Salem while planning a funeral; working long hours in his postgraduate studies. A steady relationship just seemed like one thing too many.

He and Luna had dated a bit his seventh year, but it didn’t really work out, with Luna being kidnapped by Death Eaters and Neville being mostly gay and all. He had been a mess, worrying about her, and then relieved to find out she was alright, but once everything settled down they had both been certain that they were better off as friends. They’d barely even discussed it, it had been so obvious. Then, once Neville had overcome a very brief crisis of identity as a result of Luna gently suggesting to him that perhaps he doesn’t particularly like girls, he’d had a brief fling in his first year at the Herbological Institute with a nice-enough wizard named Graham. Beyond that, Neville’s experiences have been fleeting and not particularly romantic.

 _This isn’t romantic,_ he tells himself as he gently palms water over Draco’s chest, slowly washing away the shower gel. He thinks that, though it obviously never would have worked with Luna, there was something about her features that he loved, because she was his dearest friend and also because she really is one of the most beautiful witches he’s ever seen up close. He wonders if that’s his type - fair haired, pale-eyed waifs. He’ll have to pay more attention, figure that out later. Next time he meets someone.

It seems rude to think about the next one-night-stand while half in the bath with the current one, so Neville tries to let these thoughts go and focus on what’s doing. He lets his hand trail down, and Draco tips his head back, eyes closed. Neville leans forward and kisses along that elegant throat while he slips his hand beneath the water and cups it around Draco’s half-hard cock. Beneath Neville’s lips, Draco’s pulse jumps, his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, and the juddering breath he takes feels like a tremor.

Neville strokes him until he’s fully hard, then settles into a steady, gentle rhythm under the warm water with his fingers wrapped just a tad too loosely to really do anything. Draco is responsive, his wet hands tangling in Neville’s hair to guide his head away from Draco’s neck, and as he kisses Neville slow and deep, his hips hitch into each slide of Neville’s hand. Neville can hear their breaths and every tiny splash of water and throaty sound in the tiny, echoing space.

Draco makes a vaguely pleased sound when Neville slips his hand down to first cradle Draco’s balls and then squeeze them, tugging ever-so-gently, before sliding his fingers further back, teasing fleetingly at his hole. His other hand traces mindless patterns on the cooling damp skin around Draco’s right nipple. Draco hangs on by Neville’s hair, fingers gentle, and gasps into Neville’s mouth.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Neville squeezes one perfect arse cheek, then strokes one finger around and around Draco’s hole, before teasing it away to slide against his perineum. He curls his hand loosely around Draco’s cock again, letting him push through the circle of Neville’s fingers with erratic little thrusts as Neville bites along his jaw.

“I th-- _Oh,_ that’s good--” Draco moans as Neville breathes hotly into his ear before giving his earlobe a little nip. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“I will,” Neville sighs, licking a lazy line down Draco’s throat to his chest. Draco’s fingers slip and slide through Neville’s hair, damp from wet hands. Draco absently pets him, and Neville smiles into his skin, curving his tongue over one hard, pink nipple.

“When?”

Neville snorts and looks up from his task. “Are you in a hurry or something?”

Draco rolls his eyes and gives a pointed roll of his hips, trying to get more friction out of the loose grip of Neville’s hand. “Not a hurry, per se.”

“Okay,” Neville says, and fastens his mouth over the other nipple.

“It’s just--” Draco gasps. “Would you want to fuck me?”

Neville groans. _Merlin’s tits_ , he thinks, then nearly laughs at himself. He stalls for a moment by paying more attention to Draco’s chest and neck, but is promptly pulled away, gently, by the hair.

“You can just say no,” Draco says.

Neville moves his hand away from Draco’s cock, settling it high on his inner thigh instead, and considers him. He’s red-faced from the heat of the water, but his cheeks are even redder with a flush that is actually a touch shy of unattractive. Neville remembers how when they were in school and he was incensed, Draco’s face would pink up, and it’s interesting, the knowledge that it does the same when he’s turned on. His hair is vaguely wavy in the steam of the bathroom, which makes Neville wonder if he straightens it or something. His mouth is kissed red and a little puffy, and his eyes are guarded. He’s worried he’s shown his hand, somehow, by asking for that.

“I don’t want to say no,” Neville says carefully. “It’s just I’ve never done that.”

Draco shifts, shaking out of the slump he’d fallen into and sitting up more in the water. “What do you mean _never done that_ ? You could’ve fooled me with all that attention you were just giving my arse, and besides, you said you pull _lots_ of people.”

“I said I’ve done it _lots of times,”_ Neville corrects. “In four years since school, I could’ve done it two or three times a year and called that _lots._ It’s not like I do it every day. Or even every weekend. I’m not a _slag_ , Malfoy.”

Draco laughs, which transforms his face. Neville catalogs it absently: _Draco Malfoy when he’s laughing because something is funny._ It joins _Draco Malfoy when he’s laughing because he’s being cruel_ and _Draco Malfoy when he’s laughing because he’s panicking._

“Fine, fine,” Draco says. “Do you only get laid a couple times a year, then?”

“No, of course not,” Neville says. “Listen, I do just fine. But I haven’t been on the...ah. On the giving end, so to speak. And I only did it the other way a couple times with my ex just after I left Hogwarts.”

“Hm.” Draco leans forward. “So you only like being on the bottom?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

Draco splashes him and scowls. “Longbottom, do you want to fuck me or not? It’s a fairly simple question.”

Neville feels himself really blush for the first time since he woke up to Draco Malfoy in his bed that morning, and curses himself a blue streak in his mind. He’d been doing so well, playing this _so cool._

“Will--” Neville clears his throat to fend off an impending stammer. “Would you show me how to do it without hurting you?”

“Obviously,” Draco says. “Though if you’ve been on the receiving end you should know the basics.”

Neville hums instead of responding, not wanting to get into the gory details about the handful of times he agreed to let Graham fuck him and how uncomfortable it had been.

“So, shall I get out so you can rinse off, or would you like to do this with the remnants of last night’s dried semen in your pubic hair?”

Neville settles back on his heels, taking his hands out of the bathwater. “You’ve always had a way with words.”

“I’m _poetic,”_ Draco says in a tone that sounds like agreement, as if that’s what Neville meant.

Neville rolls his eyes. “Come on then, stand up so I can get in there, too.”

In short order, Neville steps out of his underwear, unstops the drain, and turns on the shower. He hisses when it sprays too cold at first, while Draco squeaks in a way Neville will not find _cute_. It’s not long before Draco’s long, clever fingers are spreading soap suds over Neville’s broad chest and shoulders.

“How in the hell did you get so _brawny,_ ” Draco says, like a complaint rather than a compliment. “I’m still as scrawny as a fifth year, and this is distinctly unfair.”

“You’re not scrawny,” Neville laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve always been--”

“ _Don’t_ call me tiny. I’m _not.”_

“Compared to me, maybe.”

“Not in _all_ departments,” Draco says with a pointed glance downward.

Neville has been hard since Draco stripped down and sank into the hot bathwater with an obscene moan of pleasure. He follows Draco’s gaze to where their cocks just barely avoid sliding together and takes a step closer so they do. The swirling soap makes for just the right sort of slippery. He bites back a sound but Draco doesn’t do the same, letting a shuddery moan slip. Neville considers the difference between them. Draco’s cock is longer, but Neville’s is thicker.

“You’re saying I have a small cock?” Neville asks, bending his knees and pushing up with his hips so he can catch the head of Draco’s cock against his own.

“No,” Draco groans. “Of course not. But just admit I’m bigger.”

“Forget it,” Neville laughs, pulling Draco in closer, sliding a hand down his slender back to the top of the crack of his arse. “I owe you nothing.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Draco agrees. “Put your fingers in me.”

“Soon,” Neville says, and takes his hand away. “I want you on my bed for that.”

“So hurry up already and rinse off! I’m getting out.”

Neville lets him go with another laugh. “Sure, Malfoy, I’ll hurry.”

Draco disappears to the other side of the shower curtain, and then Neville does hurry. He rinses efficiently then turns the water colder and scrubs his fingers over his face under the spray. The shock of cold water brings him back from the edge a bit. It’s been an awful lot of build up, all this touching and kissing. He’s been hard for what feels like hours, and Malfoy saying the words _put your fingers in me_ had just been unfair.

When Neville steps out of the shower, Draco is gone, and so are both of the towels Neville laid out earlier.

He swears and hurries out of the bathroom and across the tiny flat naked and dripping wet, to find Draco sat on his bed, one towel around his waist and the other wrapped around his head.

Neville shivers. “That’s my towel you stole. I’ve only got the two.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Draco says and stands, taking his time with the words and slowly unwrapping the towel from his hair. “Come here, I’ll dry you off.”

Neville steps forward into his space and ignores the towel being held out to him in favor of yanking away the one around Draco’s waist. “Thanks.”

Draco immediately moves even closer, reaching up to tug Neville down into a bruising kiss. Neville scrubs the towel hastily over his dripping hair and then tosses it away. He holds Draco’s angular face in his hands and kisses back, but doesn’t take over. Draco’s doing an excellent job on his own, his clever tongue slipping past Neville’s parted lips. Neville swipes wet strands of hair back behind Draco’s ears and tries to get even closer, succeeding by knocking them off balance and onto the bed. The kiss ends long enough for Draco to scramble back on the mattress, with Neville’s hands helping the process by lifting him at the hips.

Draco isn’t _actually_ tiny, but he’s narrow, and not particularly tall. Neville thinks with some feeding up he wouldn’t be so easily manhandled. He seems to like being manhandled, though, judging by the breathy “Yes, okay,” he utters when Neville moves him, and the way he lies back easily, thighs spread, as if all his strings have been cut.

Neville makes a point of being a little rough with his hands on those thighs, just to see what will happen. Sure enough, Draco goes liquidly pliant, his hands soft and loose against Neville’s biceps. Neville hitches him up, slots himself between those slender legs, and thrusts his hips so that they pick up somewhere around where they left off in the shower. Draco moans into a kiss as their cocks line up just so.

Neville has kissed a fair number of people, and slept with maybe a third of those. He’s had excellent experiences and so-so ones, with one or two truly awful, irredeemable ones. He tries not to compare, but it’s hard not to. He suspects everyone compares their lovers.

Right now, he can’t think of a comparison to this. Is it because he’s only ever been with muggles, save for Graham and Luna? Luna is a woman, and Neville liked her so very much, but frankly, the less said about their single instance of sex the better. Graham had been...fine. But he had spent the war in the Far East, having been sent there by nervous parents around the time Neville would have been in his fifth year. He hadn’t really understood Neville--or his friends--at all. It had affected every aspect of their relationship, including the sex. Neville had gone unintentionally celibate for a while after their amicable break up, and since then every partner he’s had has been a muggle. It had just been simpler.

But as Neville bites at Draco Malfoy’s lower lip and gets a set of fingernails raked down his back in response, as Draco makes incoherent sounds of pleasure against his mouth, seeming to relax even more into Neville’s hands at this cautious application of force, Neville feels _electrified_.

Funny that, thinking something so muggle, and he’s only ever felt that way with this one particular wizard.

“Ah!” Draco cries out when Neville moves to bite a line of red marks down his throat. “Please tell me you have lube somewhere nearby.”

“‘Course,” Neville says, and bites a bit more viciously at Draco’s throat. Draco _keens_. Neville feels it in his balls, and he thrusts hard into the sweat-damp space between Draco’s thighs.

“In your own time,” Draco moans. “Whenever you feel like it, I suppose.”

“Too right,” Neville murmurs, making a hasty trail of kisses down Draco’s torso and sliding back so he can hunch down between Draco’s legs and suck his cock straight down to the back of his own throat.

“ _Fucking_ hell, Longbottom,” Draco shouts, hips trying to buck up.

Neville holds him down and swallows around him, eyes falling shut as a series of delicious, unintelligible sounds and words fall from Draco’s mouth.

He can’t do much in the way of wandless magic, but he can summon nearby items, so he does that--pulls off of Draco’s lovely, dripping cock, presses his lips just beneath the flared head and murmurs, “Accio lubricant,” with one hand up to catch it.

Draco lets out a hysterical giggle and starts to say something, but it’s lost as Neville takes him in his mouth again, all the while slicking his fingers. When he slips his middle finger slowly past the tight ring of Draco’s hole, Draco goes oddly silent. Neville looks up, and finds wide grey eyes looking down at him, a swollen pink mouth frozen in an “o” of pleasure. Neville presses his finger forward a bit, and is gratified by the way Draco’s head tilts back as he moans, his mouth falling open when Neville quirks his finger just right. Draco looks down at him again, panting, and Neville won’t pretend to himself that he doesn’t find him gorgeous then.

His other hand clenches around Draco’s hip, but Draco seems fully capable of holding still for the time being, so he lets go and adds his hand to the work his mouth is doing, wrapping his fingers around Draco’s spit-slick cock and stroking with every slide of his lips. Draco whimpers above him, and Neville can see his hands twisting in the sheets at his sides.

“ _Merlin,”_ Draco gasps. “That’s so good.”

Neville hums, which elicits a strangled groan, and works another finger inside Draco’s tight hole.

“I don’t believe you’ve never topped before,” Draco rambles. “This is _practiced,_ Longbottom, you can’t--ah!--can’t fool me.”

Neville pulls off Draco’s cock with a pop and licks his own numb lips. “I’ve done _this_ loads of times, Malfoy, don’t be stupid.” He fucks his fingers inside a little more roughly and drinks in the way Draco’s body reacts to that, the way he grunts and pushes down on Neville’s fingers. Neville pours more lube over the place where his fingers disappear in and out of Draco’s body, then pulls them out completely to spread it around before pushing back in with three.

“ _God,”_ Draco sobs. “I almost want to come like this.”

“Almost?” Neville twists his fingers, spreads them apart a little, then sets a punishing pace with all three curved just so, his other hand jerking just a bit roughly on Draco’s cock.

Draco collapses back against the mattress, crying out and burying his hands in his own hair. “F-fuck-- Stop, please, _stop.”_

Neville does immediately, pulling out slowly. “Alright?”

“I’m not ready to come.”

Neville leans forward and presses a kiss to the base of Draco’s leaking cock. “Okay.”

“Let me ride you,” Draco says bluntly, the same way he’s segued from _any_ topic to another today.

Neville’s entire body shudders. Draco is already up on his elbows.

“Come on,” he says. “Switch places with me.”

“You’re weird in bed,” Neville says, doing as he’s told. They rearrange themselves with minimal awkwardness, just a little knocking of knees and a momentary pause for groping. Draco scrapes his thumbnail over Neville’s nipple, and Neville retaliates by sucking a quick, vicious mark to the base of his throat. Neville finds himself being shoved away and up toward the pillows at the head of the bed.

“I’m not _weird,_ who says that to someone? _You’re_ weird.” Draco says, crawling and climbing until he’s situated straddling Neville’s torso with Neville’s cock nestled between his arse cheeks. He’s slippery there, and already rocking gently. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s incredibly hot, so Neville reaches around to take hold of both round cheeks, one for each hand. Neville’s got big hands; they easily span the entirety of Draco’s arse, which feels unbelievably soft under his callouses. Draco looks down at him, one hand absently raised to finger at the red suck mark on his throat.

“You’re so bossy,” Neville insists.

“You don’t seem to mind,” Draco replies, reaching behind himself and between Neville’s spread hands to put Neville’s cock where he wants it.

He leans his weight forward, rising up, and Neville leans up to meet his mouth in a hot, but fleeting, kiss. Neville feels the tight ring of Draco’s hole just there at the head of his cock, and he trembles with the effort it takes to hold still.  For a shivering moment, he’s sure this isn’t going to work.

“Don’t--” Neville says, meaning to end the sentence with _hurt yourself_ , but it’s lost in the broken sound he makes when the head of his cock is suddenly surrounded by tight, wet heat with one decisive movement of Draco’s hips. “ _Oh.”_

“Breathe, Longbottom,” Draco says from between clenched teeth.

Neville does, but it's a struggle. He's never felt anything like this and for a terrifying second he's sure he's going to come. Nevill breathes and grips Draco’s hips. “Slow,” he warns.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Draco sinks down on him, _not_ particularly slowly, bracing himself with his hands on Neville’s heaving chest. In a moment, his arse rests against Neville’s thighs. He rolls his hips once, twice.

“I don’t want to go off like a shot, you bastard, go _slow,”_ Neville gasps.

“This _is_ slow,” Draco says with a wicked grin. “Can’t you keep up?”

With that, he starts a steady, rhythmic rolling motion. His head tilts back, exposing the long line of his throat and a deepening flush that sweeps all the way down his torso.

Neville has never felt anything quite like that tight heat, every liquid movement a tease. It’s wet and searingly hot. Where their skin touches-the backs of Draco’s thighs to the outsides of Neville’s, Draco’s palms on Neville's chest-it  _burns_. Neville’s fingers dig into Draco’s hips. His instinct is to move, to meet each undulation with a thrust up, or to use his hands to guide Draco’s hips in new patterns, to find out if this could possibly get even better. But he’s afraid to do anything that might change this, might interrupt the reckless rise of pleasure.

But then Draco looks down at him again and his pupils are blown dark, and there is a fine sheen of sweat along his hairline. His face is unguarded, and it’s enough to stop even the small, hesitant movements Neville's hips have been making without his conscious thought. Draco breathes heavily, looks at Neville from under heavy lids. His mouth is slack and open just slightly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He looks vulnerable this way, almost a little shocked at whatever this feels like for him.

Neville leans up on one elbow and reaches up to pull Draco down into a kiss. They’re both a bit breathless, but the kiss is slow, very nearly _soft_. Not chaste, but vulnerable, like Draco’s pinkened cheeks.

“Do you like it?” Draco asks against Neville’s mouth just before they part.

“What a stupid question,” Neville replies, his voice coming out lower than he intends. He clears his throat, realizing how strange it is to be lying there, inside someone’s body, unmoving, barely touching anywhere but at the place they join, afraid to say how much he likes it. He sits up and slips an arm around Draco’s waist. The head of Draco’s cock is wet against Neville’s stomach, so Neville reaches down with his free hand, and though it's an awkward angle he's able to give Draco something to thrust into as his hips roll again.

To Neville’s surprise, Draco presses his forehead sweetly against Neville’s shoulder and pushes one hand through Neville’s wet hair, not roughly like Neville expects, but gently. He works himself up and down and in circular motions that build the pleasure that burns in the pit of Neville’s stomach, higher and higher without letting it spill over, without taking it to a level that will allow either of them to come just yet. Neville keeps his grip on Draco’s cock loose, mindlessly swiping his palm across the head to tease him and spread precome around.

The sounds Draco makes are soft, practically mewling, and his breath is hot on Neville’s skin. Neville can’t help it; he tries to hold Draco closer, tightening his arm around that slender waist and doing what he can to thrust up with his feet planted flat on the mattress.

“You feel amazing,” Neville says finally, after what feels like an eternity but has been, in actuality, less than a minute buried inside Draco’s tight body. “You’re really gorgeous, you know.”

“Sweet talk?” Draco murmurs, lips dragging over Neville’s shoulder, glancing off his collarbone, then up against his ear: “Really?”

“No,” Neville replies, swallowing a groan when Draco licks his earlobe. “I don’t do that.”

“I believe you,” Draco says, and pulls back to look at Neville again.

He really _is_ gorgeous. He doesn’t look real. He looks like a fantasy; not one it would have _ever_ occurred to Neville to contemplate before. Neville wishes he had been more self aware in his younger days. Wishes it had ever occurred to him to simply recategorize Malfoy in his mind. Maybe if he had spent his furtive wanking years picturing this blush on Malfoy’s cheeks, picturing the way his eyes look startled in pleasure even when he’s trying to look wicked and unaffected, ruminating on the fact that he’s always been smaller than Neville, thinking of how he would tuck up against him so sweetly. Maybe if he had been able to imagine _this,_ Neville wouldn’t have been so intimidated by him.

Or maybe it would have been worse, because this is so _much,_ and it’s nearing explosion, this slow-building storm of feeling, and Neville feels undone by it. He kisses Draco again, holds him in a way that he worries is too tight, and meets the increasingly jerky motions of Draco’s hips with his own. He reaches behind and down so he can feel the tight stretch of Draco’s hole around his cock and trace his fingers along the slick rim.

Draco gasps, jerking in his arms so that he drives himself down on Neville’s cock, rougher than he has been, then chokes out a moan. “ _Fuck,”_ he says. “I want you to fuck me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing now?” Neville slurs, pleasure-drunk and lost.

“I want--” Draco tilts his face back down toward Neville’s shoulder, like he’s hiding. “Will you--”

“Tell me,” Neville murmurs, fingers of one hand still slipping around the skin stretched around his own cock, his other hand still trapped between them in a slippery grip around Draco’s. Neville presses his lips where they can reach, just below Draco’s ear. “Tell me how you want it, anything, it’s fine.”

Draco pulls back and shakes his head. “You’re being unbelievable, you know.”

Neville squeezes with both hands, startling free another delicious moan that reverberates from Draco’s chest, and it’s unutterably satisfying to have done it. “Tell me how you want to be fucked, Draco. You can have what you want.”

“I want to be under you, I want to be held down,” Draco says then, as if it’s easy, as if he hadn’t just hidden his face away and hesitated. “Please, I want-- Will you just--”

“Y _es,”_ Neville gasps, suddenly desperate to do just that. He squeezes his eyes shut, his toes curling at the very thought. “God, yes.”

“Do it, then,” Draco challenges--or, he clearly intends to say it like a gauntlet being thrown. It doesn’t come out that way. It comes out breathy and needy, and Neville _adores_ it.

He doesn’t want to move Draco off him, but he also doesn’t want to hurt him, so he grips Draco’s hips and guides him up. They both hiss at the separation. Neville pushes Draco to the side, then rolls him under, making a point of knocking him about just a bit.

Draco grins. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, I suppose.”

“Not even a bit,” Neville replies, taking Draco’s hands in his own and pressing them against the mattress, arms up over his head. Draco hitches his legs up around Neville’s hips, and Neville finds he can slide right back inside him in one long, smooth thrust. “ _God,”_ Neville bites out. “You’re so…Tight.”

“It’s been a while,” Draco groans. “I take back what I said, your cock is _not_ small.”

Neville laughs, breathless, and pulls out slowly, nearly all the way, before pushing back in, slow again. “Tell me what you want.”

“I think you can figure it out from here.”

“I don’t want to--”

“Hurt me, I know.” Draco twists his wrists inside the grip of Neville’s hands, intentionally rubbing the skin a little red. “I like that, though. Just a little. Come on. I know you have it in you. _Do it.”_

Neville pulls out again and says nothing, kisses him roughly as he thrusts in again, harder this time. Draco moans his approval into the kiss, which goes open and sloppy almost immediately as they begin to move in some semblance of a rhythm.

“Harder,” Draco pleads eventually, panting and crying out with each thrust in. “Please, harder.”

Neville squeezes Draco’s wrists and says “Keep your hands here,” before letting go of them. He sits up and hitches Draco’s hips higher, fucks him hard with one hand pressing against his pale chest and the other digging bruises into his hip.

“God, I’m not going to last.”

“It’s fine--fine, just,” Draco stammers. “Can I touch myself?”

Neville is _sure_ he’s going to come then, but the sudden spike of shocky pleasure at being asked permission doesn’t quite tip the scales. “ _Merlin_ ,” he says. “Yes, do it.”

Draco gasps, “Thank you,” and takes himself in hand, crying out as Neville times a good, hard thrust with the first stroke. “That’s it, right there.”

“Yeah,” Neville replies mindlessly. “Yeah, come on.”

He tries to hit that angle again and succeeds, judging by the sound Draco makes, loud and unfettered. Neville does it over and over again, fucking Draco in time with the rhythm of those long, slender fingers on his cock. Neville can feel his own orgasm is imminent, that he’s balanced on a knife’s edge. He knocks Draco’s hand out of the way and takes over, jerking him roughly. He leans forward, buries his other hand in Draco’s hair and pulls just a little as he kisses him, hard and biting.

“Come in me,” Draco babbles against Neville’s lips. “Please, please, please--”

Neville comes, eyes _actually_ rolling up with the first crashing wave of it. He isn’t usually particularly loud, but now he lets out a groan that feels as though it’s being ripped from him along with his orgasm. He stills at first, then shakily thrusts again and again, fucking Draco through it, his hand working furiously over Draco’s cock.

“Yeah--” Draco says tightly, his hands coming up from where they’ve been pressed against the mattress ever since Neville pushed one away. He grips Neville by the back of the neck and rakes his nails down his back, stiffening and trembling as he comes, the hot, wet, slick of it dripping over Neville’s fingers, splattering Draco’s stomach. He’s gone silent with it, and taut, his mouth open, his eyebrows drawn together.

Neville is surprised, again, and gripped by an unnamable emotion, to see him look so incredibly vulnerable, to see the surprised pleasure play out on his face.

They seem to collapse, Draco’s body going pliant again as his orgasm ebbs away. Neville keeps his weight off him with one elbow, but Draco yanks him down, sighing with satisfaction when he’s pressed further into the mattress. Neville catches his breath there, one hand tangled in Draco’s hair, the other absently circling Draco’s wrist with thumb and forefinger, feeling the fluttering jump of his pulse.

“That,” Draco says after a while. “Was _outstanding.”_

“Stay,” Neville blurts. “That is, if you don’t have to be back at school for the weekend. You should stay here.”

Draco is quiet. His fingers don’t cease the mindless patterns they’ve been tracing on Neville’s back, but he’s quiet. Neville leans up on his elbow again to look him in the eyes. Draco considers him placidly. “You want me to stay?”

“Yeah,” Neville replies. “For today, if you like, or for the night. Will you?”

_“Why?”_

“Why _not?”_

Neville watches his face, hoping for another glimpse of openness, some indicator of what he’s thinking, but there is nothing.

“Okay,” Draco says after an endless moment. “You want a dirty weekend? That’s what it is?”

“Well--”

“Okay.”

Neville raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“That’s what I said,” Draco says imperiously.

“When do you have to be back?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“You’ll stay until then?”

Draco hesitates, but nods. “Yes.”

Neville smiles tentatively and, on a whim, kisses the very tip of Draco’s nose. “Good.”

Draco blinks at him. “Alright, well, get out of me, I’m starving again.”

Neville laughs and goes about the awkward task of slipping the rest of the way out, sucking air through his teeth at the oversensitive drag and wincing sympathetically when Draco makes a small sound of complaint.

“I’m fine,” Draco says, only just slightly snappish.

“I know,” Neville tells him. He looks down at the mess they’ve made of each other. “We’re filthy again.”

Draco arranges himself against the pillows and waves an aristocratic hand. “Spell it away, I’m too tired to move.”

“You said you were hungry.”

Draco just raises one delicate eyebrow expectantly.

 _He’s such a shit,_ Neville thinks. “I’m not serving you lunch in bed.”

“Beg to differ,” Draco says with a long stretch that displays every red mark Neville left behind from his throat down to his hips, and the wet shimmer of come all over his stomach and thighs.

Neville knows when he’s been bested. He climbs out of bed and goes for his wand and snacks. “You are now and have always been _the most awful,”_ he grouses as he goes.

“Hurry up,” Draco replies. “After we eat, I want you to explain how to work the tellyvisor, I saw you have one.”

Neville smiles where Draco can’t see, tells himself yet again that he doesn’t find any of this _cute_ , and hurries up.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Neville wakes to the sensation of lips trailing softly up his arm from his wrist, and a weight across his thighs that tells him he’s being sat on.

“You sleep like the dead,” Draco says from above him. “I can’t believe it took this long to wake you.”

“What if I wanted to sleep in?” Neville wonders out loud, then clears his throat when his voice comes out clogged with sleep. “I’m very tired, you know.”

“As you should be,” Draco agrees.

Neville opens his eyes. Draco is sleep-mussed and smirking. He’s also stark naked and noticeably half-hard.

“There is absolutely no way anything is happening before we both actually shower,” Neville says.

Draco drops Neville’s arm and huffs. “You spelled us clean!”

“ _Three times_ ,” Neville says, amused. “I’m sorry, love, but magic _does_ have limits.”

Draco’s body goes tense. “Don’t do that.”

Neville pauses, still blinking sleep from his eyes. His hands have found their way to Draco’s hips since he woke, and he can feel the tension in Draco’s muscles. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t--” Draco shakes away his hands and climbs off the bed. “ _Pet names_ are not part of this. Don’t do that.”

“I--” Neville squints, trying to retrace his steps in this conversation. When he hits the stumbling block, he sighs. “Oh. I didn’t mean--”

“ _Obviously,”_ Draco snaps. “Look, it’s fine. I’m going to shower like you said.”

“Wait!” Neville struggles to sit up. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be, it’s really fine,” Draco says, not looking at him. “Showering now. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

With that, he leaves the room in a flurry of snatched clothing and towels, slipping through the door without a glance back.

Neville smacks himself in the forehead and mutters a heartfelt “ _Stupid.”_

 

***

 

The flat is out of coffee, Neville discovers once he struggles his way out of bed and into the kitchen.

“Shit,” he mutters. He’ll have to go out for it, if he really wants some, and he _really_ does. The thought of leaving Draco alone in the flat, though...it doesn’t sit well.

Neville curses himself again. Things had gone so well after he asked Draco to stay the day before. They had ordered Chinese, a very muggle process Draco watched with sharp-eyed interest, and shared lunch in bed. Then Neville had shown Draco the television as requested. It had been funny, and rather precious to watch Draco squinting at it, to answer his demanding questions about how it worked.

It had lead to teasing, which had been surprisingly easy and even fun. Draco was still quick and cutting, but it wasn’t quite the same as when they were in school together. It had been clear all day that neither could forget who, exactly, the other was. But it had still been good. Neville thought it had been good. At any rate, the verbal sparring and prodding had led to several instances of very, very good sex. Draco had stayed the night without discussion, the two of them collapsing into sleep after the last round, content.

And then Neville had to go and ruin it with that casual affection, as if he _does_ that sort of thing--which he doesn’t. He can’t think where that came from.

Neville’s unease only gets worse when Draco emerges from the bathroom moments later, fully clothed in the outfit he’d worn the other night. Neither of them have been clothed by any definition of the word since then. Neville bites his lip, sure he’s about to be brushed off and left.

“Don’t go,” he starts, but Draco cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not,” Draco says. “Even if I wanted to, my minder isn’t available until this evening, so I’d be stuck finding a way back to Boston.”

“Oh.” Neville leans against the breakfast bar and crosses his arms. “But do you want to? I’d take you there, you know, you’re not trapped here.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m aware of that. I’ll stay. I apologize for being...difficult. I just don’t appreciate that sort of familiarity.”

Neville regards him, feeling his own eyebrows pinch together in confusion. _Familiarity_ ? They had spent practically the entire day before in bed, leaving only for food and water. Draco had woken him by climbing atop him, for _Merlin’s sake_.

“I don’t understand you,” Neville says, finally.

“Well, consider the feeling mutual,” Draco snipes. “For god’s sake, look who is standing in your flat. What are you _doing_?”

Neville throws up his hands. “What the _hell_ , Draco?” Then, when Draco flinches at _that_ , “Am I no longer on a first name basis?”

“I don’t know why it feels strange,” Draco says, not meeting his eyes. “Actually, yes I do. None of this should have happened.”

“Is this some sort of ‘harsh light of day’ thing? Because I hate to break it to you, but I fucked you into the mattress in broad daylight. Twice.” Neville turns away to dig for the electric kettle in the cabinet over the sink. If he’s not having coffee, he’ll make tea. And he’ll do it the muggle way so he has something to slam around. That’ll distract him from the mental images flooding his mind: _Draco’s hands in his own, pinned to the bed_ ; _Draco’s nipples bitten puffy and red like the flush that spreads down his chest_ ; _The sight of his own cock disappearing into Draco’s arse_ ; _Draco’s face when he came the second time, mid-laugh because Neville said something ridiculous_.

He does slam the kettle down on the countertop, glaring at Draco as he does so he doesn’t wince at the memory of being coaxed onto his front by wicked hands, of his own hoarse shout at the first touch of Draco’s mouth.

“I believe it was still light out when you were sticking your _tongue_ in my arse, wasn’t it?”

Draco’s face goes red before Neville’s eyes. “Are you trying to shock me? I was _there.”_

“What is your _problem?”_ Neville demands, filling the kettle and switching it on.

“ _How can you stand me being here?”_ Draco shouts. “Another fuck before you sent me off, I could understand! Get one over on the piece of shit who was horrible to you. Fuck the Death Eater into submission or whatever twisted fantasy you Gryffindors entertain in your spare time, fuck if I know. But why ask me to _stay?_ _Are you out of your mind?”_

“We went over this yesterday,” Neville mutters angrily. “I distinctly remember having this conversation.”

“No,” Draco snaps. “Yesterday we agreed that we had fun the night before and you wouldn’t hate doing it again. We _didn’t_ say _anything_ that would make _this--”_ here, Draco waves his hand around the flat at large, “a reasonable thing to do.”

“What do you want me to say?” Neville pleads. “That I forgive you? I forgive you! I’ve _moved on.”_

“Well _no one else has,”_ Draco hisses. “And you’re a fool for saying that. Your parents are dead because of my family, for Merlin’s fucking sake.”

Neville freezes. He feels himself pale, a cold wave of anger washing over him. “Don’t throw my _parents_ in my face. Don’t bring them into this.”

“That’s what _this_ is about,” Draco insists. “Can’t you see?”

“No,” Neville says. Behind him, the kettle clicks off. “I can’t. You did not _personally_ torture my parents. That was your aunt. You and I were babies, then. It’s not--that’s not something I ever expected you to answer for.”

“Fine.” Draco waves a hand. “Fine! Then the fact that I _ridiculed_ you about their...illness. What of that?”

“You were a child. I was a child. You were...you were _terrible.”_ Neville sighs. “But it was years ago. I’m not angry about it anymore. Honestly, I wasn’t angry then. Just...sad. You made me sad. You made me feel small and worthless, and you reminded me of the all the things I had to be sad about. Alright? Is this what you want? I acknowledge it.”

“So you wanting me here all weekend, is that a revenge thing, or is it that you have _no_ self respect?”

“You really can’t help yourself,” Neville bites out, turning away to rifle for the tea bags in another cabinet. “What do you expect to gain from insulting me?”

“I want you to kick me out!” Draco shouts. “I want you to do something that makes sense!”

Neville slams the cabinet shut, empty tea box in hand. He turns and throws it at the trash can, missing. “Well, tough! If you want to leave, you’ll have to do it yourself. You can do it while I’m at the shop buying coffee, like the coward you are.”

Neville moves to walk toward the bedroom for his clothes, but Draco grabs him by the shoulder and gets close, face tilted up to glare at him. “You think I don’t know I’m a coward? _Everyone_ knows. I was too cowardly to do as I was told during the war, and too cowardly to take the punishment I deserved after. Don’t you see? I don’t deserve anything I have. I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I don’t _want_ it.”

Neville shakes Draco’s hand off and backs away a step. “It’s not up to me to decide what you deserve,” Neville says. “But I don’t think it’s up to you, either. That’s just how it works. Now let me go get dressed and get some bloody coffee. I’m worn out and I need caffeine. I’ll bring you some. If you’re still here.”

With that, Neville goes to the bedroom to change. When he comes out, Draco is nowhere to be found, but the sink is running in the bathroom, so Neville snatches his keys and wallet from a dish by the door, and leaves without shouting a goodbye like he sorely wants to do.

 

***

 

When he returns, two paper cups of hot coffee and a bag of pastries in hand, Draco is waiting with the TV on, but he isn’t watching the talk show that’s playing. He’s watching the door. His eyes flick away and toward the screen when Neville opens it, but not fast enough to avoid being caught out. Neville can’t help it; in his relief, he smiles at the infuriating bastard.

“You’re still here,” he says, kicking the door shut behind himself. “I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Draco continues not looking at him, staring down at his hands in his lap. “Not more surprised than I am.”

Neville moves into the flat and juggles the coffee and pastries so he can deposit keys and wallet where they belong. If he doesn’t put them in the dish, he’ll never remember where he set them down later. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Draco replies, finally looking up but keeping his unfocused gaze somewhere in the vicinity of Neville’s neck. He seems to take the proffered cup blindly, then looks at it instead of at Neville. “Thank you.”

“So,” Neville says, tossing the paper bag of food on the coffee table and sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa with his own coffee. “Here we are again, having an awkward chat over coffee. Let’s just get to it, then. Why didn’t you leave?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Draco murmurs. “Maybe I’m tired of being a coward. Maybe I just don’t want to figure out how to get home.”

“Maybe you _like_ me,” Neville says, flippant, but he sees the way that lands, the way Malfoy shrugs one shoulder almost imperceptibly.

“Maybe,” Draco says lightly. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I think I like you,” Neville says, aiming for casual. He leans back, gets comfortable, sips at his coffee. “Yeah, I think I do. You’re not so bad, _Malfoy.”_

“So stupid,” Draco says, shaking his head, but it’s damn-near fond, the way he says it. “I really am trying, though. To be a better, ah...you know. Person.”

“I can see that,” Neville says softly. “I really can. You seem very different, you know. The same, in some ways. But more different than not.”

“It’s just that I don’t know if it counts,” Draco says, surprisingly honest. “Since the only reason I’m doing it is the fact I was on the losing side.”

“That can’t possibly be true. You don’t actually _have_ to try. You could be an utter arsehole until you die, if you wanted. You could have gone to China. Wizards there are fairly isolated, and don’t give two shits about what happened at home during the last war. No one would know who you are. I know you know that, and yet you chose this. The harder option. The one you have to work for. Be better for.”

“Perhaps I’m too much of a coward to leave,” Draco shoots back. “Perhaps I’m too weak to leave the only world I know, to be apart from my mother forever.”

“Maybe you just love the world you know. Maybe you love your mum.”

Draco huffs a sad laugh and speaks quietly. “Yeah, maybe.” He pauses. “I’m sorry for mentioning your parents. That was unkind.”

“It’s okay,” Neville says, because it is. It hadn’t actually been unkind, just insensitive. But they don’t need to argue the finer points. “I think if we’re to be friends, though, you should maybe move past what your parents and your aunt did two wars ago.”

“I don’t think we’re going to be friends,” Draco says. “But alright.”

Neville chooses not to argue that point, either. “Come here, Draco.”

Draco looks up from his coffee at last. “Why?”

“Just come here and kiss me.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Might be nice.”

Draco sets his coffee cup down and says “Look--“

Neville sighs and leans forward, reaching out to catch Draco’s hand and tug him across the space between them on the sofa. He presses his lips to Draco’s firmly but gently, cupping his cheek in one hand and still grasping his hand with the other.

“There,” he says when they part. “See? I was right, it was nice.”

Draco blushes. Neville delights in that.

 

***

 

They eat donuts and croissants in front of trashy daytime television. Draco insists he doesn’t want a donut, though Neville clearly remembers the way he hoarded sweets when they were children. Neville offers to trade him bites of chocolate glazed for torn off pieces of buttery croissant just to watch Draco take pieces of donut directly from Neville’s hand, his eyes falling shut in pleasure.

“There are more,” Neville says. “I know you have a sweet tooth, just take one.”

“Maybe it’s sweeter to steal yours,” Draco says. “Besides, how do you know that? Were you obsessed with me as a child?”

“I’m very observant,” Neville replies. He feeds Draco another bite of donut.

While he chews, Draco raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“I _am,”_ Neville laughs. “I know I’m forgetful, but that’s… It’s just what I’m like. I have trouble remembering where I put things, the exact words for spells sometimes, the pages I read when I study. I have to work at it. But then some things I just notice without meaning to, and they stick in my mind. Who knows why. Hermione says muggles have words for it. She showed me a website about it.”

“You use the computer for the web things?” Draco asks, impressed.

“I do,” Neville laughs. “On occasion. I can’t take muggle medication for my head. You know how that goes for wizards. But I did find ways to make remembering the little things easier.”

“Interesting,” Draco murmurs. “This affliction, is it… is it a dangerous problem? Is there something wrong?”

Neville blinks. “Oh! No, no-- it’s not a problem, really. I don’t have a tumor or a curse or anything like that. It’s just the way I work.” He shrugs. “My head likes to pay attention to the wrong things, sometimes.”

“Yet you won a prestigious scholarship at Salem,” Draco says. He nods, looking impressed again. “I suppose the internet things work quite well. What sorts of things did it tell you?”

“Oh, you know,” Neville hedges, a bit embarrassed. “Having routines. Keeping lists. Taking notes with a tape recorder-- though, I use a spell for that. It all helps.”

Unprompted, Draco offers Neville a bite of croissant. Neville makes a point of letting his lips close just so over his fingertips when he takes it. Draco’s cheeks redden a bit more, and Neville grins. Draco glares at him and clears his throat. “So, what’s the program like at Salem?”

Neville settles in to tell him about it-- the long mornings in the greenhouses, afternoons in symposium. He’s been doing occasional work study with a small grower just outside of town, and he talks about how it mostly amounts to carrying huge bags of fertilizer around all day once or twice a week.

“That explains the muscles,” Draco says with a smirk, reaching out to poke Neville in his upper arm. “God bless the herbological industry, I suppose.”

Neville winces, heat flooding his face.

“Merlin but you still blush, after all,” Draco says, soft and fond like he has been just a couple of times these past two days. Neville tamps down on the instinct to stammer. Draco reaches up and touches one burning cheek. “And here I thought you had become _cool_.”

“Never,” Neville says shakily. He clears his throat and tries to will himself out of feeling strangely embarrassed by the attention. “I’ve gotten better at not--” he waves at his face. “I don’t know, being less _reactive,_ I suppose.”

“It’s…” Draco traces a finger from Neville’s cheek to his ear. “ _Cute_.”

Neville bats his hand away lightly. “It’s not. It’s embarrassing. I was _not_ cute in school when this was how I reacted to any sort of attention, _trust_ me, I’m under no illusions there.”

“Just a little bit of blushing is cute,” Draco insists. “I suspect, looking the way you do, you could get away with it more.”

Neville looks away. “Stop.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like being told you’re gorgeous,” Draco murmurs.

“You haven’t said that.”

“Oh, well, you’re gorgeous,” Draco says, matter of fact, and climbs into Neville’s lap. Neville hurries to toss the last bit of donut toward the table so he can hold Draco by the hips. “Also, you’re fishing again.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Draco insists. He presses his thumbs to either corner of Neville’s jaw and strokes there, scraping over two-day stubble. “Do you like being complimented?”

“Everyone does.”

“Of course they do.” Draco guides Neville’s head to the side, and he sucks lightly at the side of his neck, then places light kisses up to his jaw. “But do you _really_ like it? I noticed something last night, would you like to know what it was?”

Neville turns his head and kisses him quickly. Draco wriggles in his lap, grinding against him appealingly with his fingers creeping up into Neville’s hair. “Yes, tell me,” Neville says absently, hooking one finger in the neck of Draco’s t-shirt and tugging it down to expose his clavicle, which he leans in to kiss just as Draco speaks again.

“The second time we fucked, I told you how good you were at it. Do you remember?”

Neville groans into the base of Draco’s throat. “ _Yes.”_

“You were shaking,” Draco tells him, grinding his hips with more purpose now. “It really got you off, hearing that.”

They’re both hard, but layers of denim make it impossible to get any sort of decent friction going. Still, Neville pushes back against him and scrapes his teeth over Draco’s pulse point with a pleased grunt.

“I guess it did,” Neville agrees eventually. “But as I said, everyone likes to hear things like that.”

“Not everyone goes off like a rocket because they’re told they’re a good boy.”

“Jesus,” Neville groans, his face hot where he hides it in Draco’s chest. “Stop, it’s so--”

“So hot,” Draco laughs. “So _very_ hot, Longbottom. Who knew you contained such multitudes? Holding my hands behind my back and fucking me like a _champion—_ you picked that up quickly too, by the way--and completely falling apart because I said-- what exactly was it I said?”

_That’s it, that’s so good, you’re so good, you’re--_

“Such a good boy,” Draco whispers, directly into Neville’s ear. “And then I ate you out and it was--”

“ _Stop,”_ Neville laughs helplessly. “I’m going to injure myself in these bloody jeans, _god.”_

Draco leans back in his lap and tugs at the waistband of said jeans. “That could be prevented.”

“We were having a normal conversation there for a moment,” Neville says, shifting his hips to give Draco access to his fly. “I suppose that’s finished.”

“You can keep talking while I blow you,” Draco says dismissively, with a handwave to go with it. “You talk a lot during sex anyway.”

“Hello _pot,_ I’m _kettle.”_

Draco shrugs and slides to the floor on his knees, yanking down Neville’s jeans and pants as he goes. Neville stares down at him, dumbstruck.

“You always look surprised, too,” Draco comments, hands sliding up and down Neville’s thighs, nails raking through the hair on his legs.

“It’s funny,” Neville replies, “so do you.”

“It’s not the sex that surprises me,” Draco says. He pushes Neville’s t-shirt up his torso and out of the way, then takes his cock in hand, stroking idly.

“It’s that I’m nice to you.” Neville smiles sadly and shakes his head at the surprised flicker in Draco’s eyes. He reaches down to swipe his thumb over Draco’s slightly open mouth, then up his cheek. His skin is soft; he doesn’t even have stubble, despite the fact that neither of them has shaved in at least two days. Neville thinks fleetingly of how easily wound up Draco was as a child, as a teenager. Soft underbelly. Damageable. Raw. Neville wants to pull him up off the floor and hold him close, but he knows Draco won’t allow it, if only because he has a plan in mind there on the floor, not to mention the way he shies away from kindness.

“Well.” Draco blinks and the vulnerability slips away again. He leans in close and looks up through his eyelashes, lips hovering a scant inch above the head of Neville’s cock. “It’s _definitely_ the sex that surprises _you.”_

And with that, he swallows Neville down to the root, sucking on his way back up and then sliding back down, immediately setting a breakneck pace. Neville gasps and his fingers spasm against Draco’s face, go to tangle in his hair. He hangs onto the sofa for dear life with the other, and lets his head fall back as Draco moans approval around the head of his cock.

“Your _mouth,”_ Neville babbles. “God, Malfoy. Who knew you could do more than bitch and whine with that mouth?”

Draco chuckles, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming sensation engulfing Neville’s cock. He pulls of with a pop, pumping with his hand while he catches his breath, still laughing, eyes sparkling. “You _dick._ I nearly choked. Go on, make fun of me, I can work with that.”

“N-no,” Neville stutters  as Draco dives back into the task of sucking him off in record time. “You know I couldn’t keep it up. Besides, _fuck,_ this is so good--I don’t--don’t want to distract you.”

“Mmm,” Draco agrees, rolling his eyes at him without stopping. His eyes are wicked and amused before they flutter shut as he takes Neville’s cock as deep as he can, swallowing around him, pulling off messily for a gasp of air before driving back down.

“I’m already so close,” Neville gasps. “ _Fuck._ Next time I’m making you take your time. D’you hear me? Next time, we’re not rushing it.”

Draco just sucks him faster, and then presses a spit-slick finger against Neville’s hole, eyes opening and one eyebrow raising in question. Neville nods frantically, and Draco slips the finger inside and presses _just right_ and Neville is gone, coming explosively. He expects Draco to suck him through it, swallow it down, like he had the other night after they met in the bar. But Draco pulls off and strokes him, catching streaks of come across his lips and chin, his eyes burning into Neville’s. He looks so pleased with himself, licking his lips, clearly fighting back a grin.

Neville does yank him up then, off the floor and back into Neville’s lap.

“You’re going to get--”

Whatever Draco had been about to say--Neville guesses _“come on your face”_  and he sincerely doesn’t care about that--is cut off by Neville’s mouth on his, Neville’s tongue swiping over his lips and then pushing past them. Neville kisses him thoroughly and deeply, then licks drops of his own come from Draco’s chin before kissing him again, applying his teeth to Draco’s swollen lower lip with prejudice.

“You’re secretly quite kinky,” Draco gasps when they part moments later. His eyes are wide. He’s smiling. Neville kisses him again and again and again.

Eventually, Draco wriggles impatiently and says, “Feel free to get me out of these horrible trousers any time.”

“Oh, no,” Neville chuckles. “You’re going to talk to me now.”

_“What!”_

“Don’t worry,” Neville says, stripping his own shirt off so he can use it to dab the rest of Draco’s face clean. “I won’t leave you wanting. But you keep derailing me. I told you about my schooling and my job. I never get to ask you anything.”

“And you want to do it _now?_ Longbo-- Neville.” Draco pauses and considers this. “Can I call you Nev?”

“No.”

 _“Fine._ Neville it is, then.” He rolls his eyes so hard Neville worries he’s going to hurt himself. “Neville. I could really use a hand here, and you want me to talk about _Harvard?”_

“I really do,” Neville replies cheerfully. He tips Draco off his lap and says, “Here--” then goes about unbuttoning and unzipping the fly of Draco’s jeans. “This should help.”

“You’ve got to be fucking-- Seriously!”

“Come on, get to it. The faster you actually talk to me the faster you’ll get what you want.”

Draco squawks and protests, but Neville ignores all of it, manhandling him around the sofa until they can both fit lying down, Draco’s head resting against Neville’s chest. Neville is fully naked and Draco is fully clothed, so while Draco continues to complain about the unfairness of it all, he goes ahead and wrestles Draco out of his shirt as well, to even things up a bit. Once he’s settled and has tugged an unhelpful Draco into a comfortable position, Draco falls quiet.

“Go on,” Neville says softly. “If you’re comfortable, that is.”

“I’m comfortable,” Draco says, like that worries him. “You...We’re _cuddling_ now?”

“Mmhmm. So. What’s Harvard like?”

Draco sighs and is silent for a long moment in which Neville is sure he’s going to flatly refuse to talk about this. But then he says “Okay,” and he talks.

He talks about his muggle classes, which all seem to amount to some form of maths or another. He mentions, briefly, wizarding finance courses, and his bewilderment over the lack of goblins in that field in the States. He does not mention any other magical elements in his education, and Neville wonders if that means there _aren’t_ any. He also doesn’t mention the terms of his probation or his minder, but Neville can’t help but ask.

“And your minder? Is it always the same person?”

Draco shifts uncomfortably, and Neville soothes him with a hand swept up and down his back. Eventually, Draco speaks.

“Yes. It’s always the same person. Her name is Meredith and she’s alright, I suppose.” He shrugs. “She doesn’t bother me much. I just have to tell her where I’m going when I want to use magical means to get there, and she has to authorize it. She monitors my attendance in my courses and my grades; screens my correspondence home. Probably knows I’m here.”

“You think?”

“What’s the point in watching me if they don’t _watch_ me? I don’t think she knows about the polyjuice. I mean. I’d be in Azkaban if she did. But there have been plenty of instances where she seemed to know where I’d been. Once, that first year, I got caught in a snowstorm and stuck at a grotty little pub for hours and hours, and a MACUSA agent appeared to make sure I wasn’t up to no good. They were more concerned about my comings and goings back then. As far as I can tell, they do random checks on my magical signature and...I don’t know. Check up on it, I suppose.”

“It sounds...uncomfortable,” Neville says, knowing it’s inadequate. “Like living under a microscope.”

Draco shrugs again. “Or inside a fishbowl.”

“Sorry,” Neville says softly.

“You already know how I feel about it,” Draco says, but it’s not sharp and he doesn’t seem upset. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

Neville holds him tighter, because in this position he seems able to get away with that sort of thing. Draco, to Neville’s surprise, curls closer and sighs. They fall quiet. Neville decides to see if Draco will let him touch him lightly some more, starting with sweeping strokes up and down his back. He does let him, and even _purrs_  a bit, when Neville gently massages at the join of his neck and shoulder. Neville scratches his nails lightly against Draco’s scalp, then combs them down through his fine hair.

“This is nice,” Neville says after a while. “Isn’t it?”

Draco shifts up, resting his chin on his hand so he can look down at Neville. He considers him for a moment before speaking. “It is nice,” he says. “I...I’ve liked this. Being here.” He clears his throat. “With you.”

Neville grins and tugs him down for a kiss. “Don’t strain yourself,” he says. “I’ve liked you being here. I’m really glad it was you, and not some rower called Brennan.”

“But why are you glad?” Draco demands, the way Draco seems to demand things without really meaning to.

Neville makes a thoughtful sound and shifts a bit to get more comfortable. It slots their legs together and wedges Draco a bit against the back of the sofa. Neville scoots down so they’re nearly face-to-face and threads his fingers through Draco’s hair again, because it feels so good against his fingers, and he secretly thrills at the way Draco lets him do it.

“I’m glad because no one here really knows anything about me.” Neville closes his eyes, thinking for a moment. He keeps them closed when he speaks again. “It’s nice to be around someone who knows me. It’s nice that you...you have...what’s the word? It’s like you were there too, so that means you understand. Maybe you don’t, maybe you being caught on the other side means you don’t understand at all. But. At least you _know._ I...I have dreams about that _snake_ and I--”

Neville opens his eyes at the tentative touch of Draco’s hand to the side of his face. Draco stares back, and the recognition there stops Neville’s breath.

“The snake,” Draco says evenly, “is dead.”

“Ding dong,” Neville jokes, but the muggle reference clearly flies right over Draco’s head. “I know she’s dead.”

“You killed her.”

“I bloody well did.”

“She lived in my house,” Draco says with a shudder. “Did you know?”

“ _No,”_ Neville cringes. “That’s awful.”

“It... He used her to hurt people. To kill people. I saw--” Draco’s voice seems to fail him. It’s almost as if he would cry, if he would let himself, but he won’t, and so his voice simply stops while his mouth works to form the next words.

“Don’t,” Neville whispers. “Don’t, don’t say it.”

“I--” Draco shudders again. “Sorry, sorry, I can’t.”

“I know,” Neville says, urgent. “I _know.”_

Draco’s body is wracked, as though with a dry sob, and Neville clings to him, clutches his hand where it still rests on Neville’s own cheek.

“Fuck,” Draco says thickly after a moment. “It’s all so terrible.”

“I’m sorry I made you talk about any of it,” Neville says, feeling regret like a stone atop his chest. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“No,” Draco shakes his head. He sits up, wiggling until he can straddle Neville’s thighs. He seems to like looking down at him. “I think...I think that was good. Was it good? Is it good to _feel_ so much about it?”

“I think so,” Neville says. “I think it’s good to let yourself feel things, and know when not to force it. And if you didn’t feel _anything_ that would probably be worse. Hermione says that, anyway.”

Draco huffs. “How is good old Miss Knowitall, then?”

“Be nice,” Neville warns, but he’s not really serious. Hermione sort of _is_ a know-it-all. “She’s well. Engaged to Ron, of course.”

“Hmmm,” Draco tilts his head from side to side. “That sounds right. Correct. The way of things. I assume their golden boy is still at the center of it all? The two of them on either side of his shining light?”

Neville rolls his eyes. _“I’m_ the one who could’ve been the Chosen One. There but for the grace of Harry Potter go I. You don’t hear me getting all bitchy about it. What _is_ it with you and Harry?”

“What in the bloody buggering fuck are you on about,” Draco sputters. “You could’ve been the Chosen One?” His voice goes demanding again. “Explain that.”

Neville shrugs. “Don’t you know? Harry and I very nearly share a birthday. We were born one day apart. The prophecy from Trelawney could’ve pegged either one of us to be the Boy Who Lived. I was the lucky bastard whose parents had already been driven batty by the time Halloween rolled around that year, so it was the poor Potters who got Avada’d, and Harry who caught a piece of nasty Dark Lord soul. And so, Harry got to be abjectly miserable for most of his life and I got to be somewhat invisible, and then the thing with the sword, as you know.”

“Merlin’s _balls,_ Neville, are you serious?”

Neville laughs, and once he gets started he finds it hard to stop, devolving into mad giggles. He covers his face with his hands; he knows he looks like a donkey when he laughs. But Draco bats his hands away.

“Oi! Don’t lose your head on me, we’re _talking,_ remember?”

Neville swallows another bubble of laughter and shakes his head. “I’m serious about it, yes,” he manages, then snorts and covers his face again. “God, it’s strange that you don’t know this. I guess a lot of people don’t. It was mostly a Witch Weekly sort of story. The Boy Who Wasn’t or whatever the hell Rita Skeeter called me. Oh, god, it was--” Neville laughs so hard he has a coughing fit and wheezes when he speaks. “It was garbage. But they took a nice photo. I got two d- _ha!-_ I got two dates out of it.”

“Unbelievable,” Draco says crossly. He smacks Neville on the shoulder. “Get yourself together!”

“Sorry,” Neville gasps between giggles. “It’s funny how it can all be so awful and so bloody hilarious at the same time.”

“You are an interesting person,” Draco declares. “Color me shocked.”

“Prick,” Neville says good-naturedly.

“ _Dweeb,”_ Draco shoots back, which sets Neville off again.

When he finally stops laughing, he tries to pull Draco back down for more cuddling, but Draco slips out of his grasp.  

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Draco says. “You’re like a kicked puppy. Come on, I just want to move this back to bed. I’m exhausted by all of this honesty and insanity. Let’s take a nap.”

“A nap?" Neville asks, pleasantly surprised. "Really?”

 _“Just_ like a puppy,” Draco says, offering Neville a hand to help him up and off the sofa. “So eager to wriggle and slobber all over me, I’m sure.”

“Shut up,” Neville says, getting to his feet and pulling Draco close. “You liked the wriggling and slobbering. And you like a good cuddle, you can’t fool me.”

“Take me to bed, you idiot,” Draco snipes.

Neville scoops him up, just like he did the first night, and does.

 


	4. Chapter 4

They sleep a bit, curled around each other with the curtains drawn to filter the bright late-morning sun. Neville only dozes a little, but Draco seems completely exhausted and drops off quickly. He’s a deep sleeper, and doesn’t stir when Neville shifts around to get comfortable, or when Neville reaches out impulsively to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear or run a finger lightly over one eyebrow.

Eventually, Neville needs to get out of bed to use the loo. He slips out as quietly as he can, and after he’s finished he heads to the kitchen for cheese and fruit and a packet of crisps, plus some of the bottled water his flatmates keep around. When he carries it all back into the bedroom, Draco’s eyes are open, but sleepy.

“Hey,” Neville says, hushed. “Hungry?”

“I could eat,” Draco says just as quietly. “I don’t want to sit up just yet, though. Come here.”

Neville dumps the snacks on the end of the bed and crawls back under the covers with Draco, tugging him close again. “Alright?

“You’re so warm,” Draco replies, moving in close.

Neville is surprised by this, but doesn’t let it show. He hasn’t been this physically close to another person outside the context of sex in _years_ , and he’s missed it. It frightens him to admit it, but he specifically likes doing this with Draco. _Wants_ it. His fingers itch to touch him, and it's as though his arms move on instinct, fitting around him so easily. Neville’s body both knows what to do and what it wants, and seems completely confused by it. The feeling in his stomach reminds him of the time Hermione and Harry convinced him to ride a muggle rollercoaster, or his few attempts at broom flying. It’s as if he’s been in constant freefall for a day and a half. His head is no better. Whenever he tries to stop and think about what he’s doing, or what might happen next, Neville’s mind runs from it, fast as it can.

“I’ve never done this,” Draco says after a while. “No one’s ever...It’s strange. But I like it.”

“Do you mean cuddling?”

“Cuddling, sleeping with another person, _talking so much.”_

Neville chuckles. “Haven’t you dated?”

“When would I have done that?”

Neville sighs. “That makes sense. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Draco murmurs, stretching a bit. “I think I saw a box of blueberries when you came in. Where are those?”

Rolling his eyes, Neville sits up and pulls the pile of food closer. “I have to feed you by hand again?”

“Please,” Draco scoffs. “You clearly live for that sort of thing. You’re very touchy-feely.”

“I think you might be, too,” Neville replies. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Draco arranges himself up against the headboard and holds out a hand. “Water?”

“Here.”

“I don’t know lots of things about myself, I think,” Draco comments, cracking open the bottle. “I was thinking about it while you were out earlier, and I don’t think anyone has ever asked me what I want before. You told me that if I wanted to leave I should just leave. You weren’t going to throw me out, and you weren’t going to make me stay. I’m not used to...choices.”

“No offense,” Neville says, popping a blueberry into his mouth, then holding the carton out to Draco, “but weren’t you a spoiled kid?”

 _“Very,”_ Draco replies once he takes the berry, chews, and swallows. He opens the packet of crisps and holds it out to Neville. “But the thing is? I didn’t _ask_ to be. That’s just how it was. I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I mean I could have anything I wanted, until I couldn’t. Toys? Anything. Clothes? I never wore the same thing twice if I didn’t feel like it. But friends? Those were the children of my parents’ so-called friends. Interests? I honestly don’t know that I had any until after the war, because only very specific things are acceptable when you’re being raised to be a _terrorist._ I didn’t even decide what I would study after that stellar career choice fell through. My mother still thinks she’s choosing a _wife_ for me, you know.”

“Well, that won’t end well,” Neville says, and Draco laughs.

“No, it won’t,” he says. “I _wanted_ to be a Death Eater, you know. Because I wanted to be the person my father wanted me to be. He told me that it was my duty, my _destiny_. I didn’t know any better. I should have. I _should_ have, but I didn’t. Because I was spoiled, and that made me stupid.”

Through all of this, they make quick work of the crisps and swig through their bottles of water. Neville finds the little knife he brought in with the food and starts cutting tiny cubes of cheese from a small block of cheddar.

“Do you still believe all that stuff, though?” Neville asks. “Not the duty and the destiny, but the philosophy behind what Voldemort was doing? Pureblood superiority?”

“No,” Draco says, flat and decisive. “I _wanted_ to, but I’d have to be completely blind to keep on believing it. Look at Granger. I mean, _look_ at her. She trounced me in school. I _hated_ it, and I _hated_ that she was muggleborn. But that didn’t change the fact that she was very definitely at least a _slightly_ better witch than I am a wizard. And no offense, but you’re a pureblood and you were disastrous more often than not.”

Neville snorts. “True,” he says. “But in my defence, I didn’t have the internet back then.”

“Sorry,” Draco winces. “I didn’t mean--”

“I know,” Neville says gently. “So what was it then, that made you do it, if you weren’t a true believer?”

“I wanted it to not be an _option_ for Granger to be better than me,” Draco says with a sigh. “I wanted my father to be proud of me. I wanted to best Harry Potter. I really wanted power, and believed that was all there was to strive for. I was so selfish, and so naive. It wasn’t until sixth year that it even occurred to me what _death_ really is. Isn’t that disgusting? I’m disgusted with that. By the next year I really understood it, and I was _petrified_. But I still wanted to win, I still _needed_ to fulfill my destiny. I didn’t know there was any other option. Snape tried to tell me, I think, but.” He sighs. “I’ll never know, because he’s dead. Death still frightens me more than anything else.”

“Of course,” Neville says, chewing thoughtfully on the last bit of cheese. “But doesn’t any of this show you why I, or anyone else, might be willing to give you just the _tiniest_ bit of slack? None of us really understood until we had to.”

“It does, and it doesn’t. I understood because I caused death. You understood because… because people like me could have caused yours. And while I appreciate the sentiment, you  might be the only wizard from the other side willing to forgive me. I still think you’re out of your mind to say it.”

Draco pauses and closes his eyes.

“I... Reckoning with all of it has been… it’s so difficult to-- I don’t know what I’m saying. I love my mother. I miss my father. I hate what they wanted me to be, what they would still want me to be. I hate the person I was, and more often than not, I hate the person I am now, too.” Draco drains the last of his water and sets the empty bottle aside. “I’m ashamed. And quite angry. And just a little, you know. Messed up. About all of it.”

Neville crumples empty containers and bags in his hands and drops them off the side of the bed to be dealt with later, then slides close to Draco again, dropping an arm around his shoulders and tugging him in against his side.

“You? No way,” he says. “You’re the most well-adjusted wizard I’ve ever met. Really normal and fine.”

Draco pinches his side. “Snarky little shit,” he says. “Again, you contain multitudes.”

Neville pinches him back, and it devolves from there, until Draco is under Neville with Neville’s fingers digging into his sides. Draco laughs so hard that tears leak from his eyes. His laughter borders on hysterical, his face contorting as though in pain even after Neville stops tickling him. He moves between laughing and crying seamlessly and like there’s some battle between the two playing across his face, until he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and hiccups through a handful of stray giggles.

Neville waits until Draco’s chest stops hitching, then gently removes his hands from his wet, reddened eyes. He kisses Draco then, soft and sweet. Their lips lock and part, then again, and Draco seems torn between arching into it and melting into the bed. Neville touches him gently, hands tentative on his wrists, his arms, his neck and cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Draco chokes, his face crumbling again. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re alright,” Neville says. “Okay? You’re going to be alright.”

“Maybe,” Draco says, voice hitching, and pulls Neville back in.

The kisses are a language unto themselves. Neville pours his regret and fear and gratitude and comfort into every catch of lips and sweet stroke of tongue. Draco seems to drink them down, his trembling hands hesitant against Neville’s face and shoulders and chest. The way his breath hiccups between them is sorrow and the gentle way his hands touch Neville’s face is contrition. Neville tries to forgive him in kisses and soothe him with his fingers.

They grab and caress and move together, the cradle of Draco’s thighs accommodating Neville’s hips easily, his unbuttoned jeans practically falling off him and slipping further and further down. Neville pulls away from him only to be rid of them once and for all, and then falls back into Draco’s waiting arms, relief coursing through his veins.

They’re hard, but that doesn’t seem important. They kiss, and kiss some more, and touch each other in strange places.

Neville pulls back to press two fingers against the tiny lines between Draco’s eyebrows; Draco walks his fingers along a tiny curse scar on Neville’s shoulder. He got it from a haggard wizard from the Snatchers on a covered bridge. He doesn’t say this out loud to Draco.

Neville kisses the thin, silvery scars on Draco’s chest and around his ribcage. He knows what these are; there were rumors about what spell Harry used to fell Malfoy in the bathroom. Neville doesn’t know which of them was the truth. He knows Harry could have killed Draco. He knows that if Harry _had_ killed him, the entirety of the last several years could have gone very differently. He is intensely, selfishly, blindingly grateful that Harry didn’t kill Draco. That Snape had been there. That Voldemort didn’t kill Draco. That Draco couldn’t have killed Dumbledore. That the killing is over, thank _Merlin_ the killing is over, now.

Draco sighs shakily, and Neville lets go of the very last of his doubt and gives himself over to the need to be close, to forgive and soothe and hold and protect, because if not for forgiveness, if not for giving people like Draco the chance to change, what was any if it _for_?

Neville takes Draco’s lips in a harder kiss, unable to restrain his own whimper. Draco can’t possibly know what he’s thinking, but he responds as if he can, wrapping his arms and legs around Neville as if they could merge somehow, sink into one another and cease to be these soft, breakable things and become something else.

“Please,” Draco whispers when they break apart to breathe.

Neville doesn’t need to have it spelled out. He finds the lube and has two fingers inside Draco between one breath and the next, and he goes back to kissing him as he stretches him slowly, taking his time and reveling in each and every gasp, swallowing the cries that spill from Draco’s lips.

“I want you,” he murmurs nonsensically as he turns Draco on his side and slides up behind him. “Do you hear me? _I_ want you.”

He thinks: _Want me, too. Choose me. Stay, stay, stay._

“Have me, then,” Draco says in his broken voice. _“Please.”_

Neville does exactly what he said he would do earlier. He drags it out, takes it almost excruciatingly slow. He guides himself inside Draco with a groan, presses his mouth to the back of his neck, and stays there. Draco flings one arm up and behind himself to get a grip on Neville’s hair. His legs are spread, one splayed atop Neville’s hips. It exposes his front and lets Neville reach around and touch him everywhere as he pushes into him over and over, as deeply and as slowly as he can. In this position Neville can pinch gently at Draco’s nipples, press his hand against his chest, hold his hand, stroke his cock. He does all of these things. He touches Draco as sweetly as he knows how, and whispers nonsense in his ear.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Neville says. “I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you, you’re perfect, you’re alright.”

Draco cries out, gasps, moans, sobs. _“Touch me.”_

Neville does, he touches him more, harder, with urgency. He strokes at Draco’s balls, tightening up against his body, and jacks Draco’s cock, dripping, in time with each thrust. He kisses his shoulder, the side of his neck, his ear. He fucks him harder, but not faster, crosses his arm over Draco’s chest like a shield, holding him as close as he can and telling him “Come for me, come on, give it to me, Draco, come for me.”

Draco’s fingers tighten in Neville’s hair and his entire body arches as his head tips back onto Neville’s shoulder. He turns his head and Neville kisses him through an orgasm that wracks them both, that seems to rip sounds from Draco’s chest and feed them directly into Neville’s waiting mouth. Draco is crying, Neville thinks. He can taste the salt of tears dripping down to their lips.

“Thank you,” Draco gasps, convulsing in Neville’s arms and around his cock, and Neville comes, like diving, like falling.

He feels _possessive_ , knowing that he’s filling Draco up, marking him in some way. He feels vaguely sick, wondering if that’s normal, if that’s alright to think. He can’t let go of him, even when it’s over. He can’t take his hand away from Draco’s softening cock, or his arm from around his chest. Draco clings with his hand in Neville’s hair, his other grasping weakly at Neville’s wrist where it rests against Draco’s delicate collarbone. They breathe on each other, sweat on each other, try not to sob on each other, though Neville’s eyes burn and prickle, and he’s fighting the urge to wipe at the tear tracks on Draco’s face.

They don’t let go, but they shift, slowly. Neville slips out of Draco’s spent body, and their legs rearrange like two parentheses nestled together. Neville wipes his hand on the bedsheets and then returns it to Draco’s hip. He loosens his arm around him but doesn’t take it away. Draco unthreads his fingers from Neville’s hair, only to hang on to his arm with both hands. Neville presses his lips to the back of Draco’s neck.

They say nothing for a very long time.

 _“Please,”_ Neville whispers eventually. “Please don’t leave.”

“I have to,” Draco whispers back.

“So come back later,” Neville says, though he _knows_ he won’t get the answer he wants.

“I...I don’t think I can,” Draco says.

_“Why?”_

There’s a very, very long silence then. Neville squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself. For a moment, he thinks perhaps Draco won’t answer. Perhaps he’s fallen asleep.

Eventually, though, Draco squeezes Neville’s forearm in both hands, presses himself further into Neville’s arms and says, “I’m not ready. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry.”_

Neville holds him as tightly as he can and takes a shuddering breath.

“Me, too,” he says, and after that neither of them speaks again.

 

***

 

Later, Draco breaks the silence. He says he has to leave and Neville tries _very_ hard not to be upset about it, or at least to keep it off his face. He fails.

“Listen,” Draco says, stepping into his shoes, “I...I can’t tell you how-- This was...I’m.”

Neville waits him out, sat at the foot of his bed where he’s been watching Draco dress with an increasing sense of impending loss. He keeps his arms crossed over his middle and doesn’t leap from the bed or fall to his knees to yank Draco back into it or beg him to stay. He just sits there, quietly panicking, afraid to speak.

“You were wonderful to me,” Draco finally struggles to say. “This was _good._ You are so, so good.”

Neville sighs, and Draco touches his face briefly, his thumb catching at Neville’s lower lip.

“You’re really lovely,” Draco says. “And I want you to know that I’m sorry I was so horrible to you before, not that saying it changes anything.”

“Sure it does,” Neville tells him, catching his hand before he can pull it away, and holding it down in his own lap, squeezing Draco’s fingers. “Thank you for saying it. Now tell me the phone number at your dorm so I can call.”

“No,” Draco says for the third time. “I can’t, _you_ can’t. You’ve got better things to do and better people to talk to than me.”

“You’re making this so difficult,” Neville complains. “What sort of ending is this? What was the point?”

“I tried to tell you,” Draco whispers. “Didn’t I?”

“You’re being a bit of an idiot,” Neville says as meanly as he can.

Draco laughs. “That was cute. You don’t have a cruel bone in your body, do you?”

Neville doesn’t meet his eyes, just stares down at their hands.

“That’s why,” Draco says, pulling his hand away. “I’m not like you. I’m trying, but-- I won’t drag you down into the mess I’m in. Alright? I won’t do that.”

“So give me your number and I’ll call you in a year when it’s over. I’ll _owl_ you. I don’t need a number for that, you know.”

“Don’t owl me,” Draco says. “Don’t.”

“I _like_ you.”

“You don’t _know_ me.”

They stare at each other. Draco breaks the silence, breaks their gaze, and steps back. Neville follows him out into the living room with his hands clenched at his sides.

“I could at least walk you to the portkey station,” Neville tries when they reach the door.

“I’ll be fine,” Draco says, calm and smooth, like none of this is strange or awkward or painful.

“What if _I_ won’t be?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You will.”

Neville, panicked, thinks: So _that’s it?_ “Am I never going to see you again?”

Draco sighs. “How about this. If I ever make it back to England, it’ll be in the papers, right? Look me up then.”

Neville feels angry, _furious_ even, like a child who is being denied a simple thing. He wants to throw an absolute _fit_ about it, which is new for him. It makes his chest tight and his face hot, makes his hands shake and his stomach queasy. His Gran once told him that as a little boy he would stomp his foot and cry, like his heart was broken, over the tiniest infractions.

He wants to stomp his foot. He wants to cry.

Instead, he kisses Draco Malfoy up against the door of the flat, swooping in before Draco can say anything else, pressing him back into the door with a thud. Draco’s hands come up immediately, holding Neville’s face. He kisses back and it’s _everything,_ it’s _so much_ that Neville is sure, down to his bones, that if they ever break apart (he would be fine if they never do), Draco will change his mind.

But Draco lets go of him, fumbling with the doorknob. He pushes Neville away gently, then keeps his hand out, keeps him at bay. He opens the door.

“I have to tell you something,” Draco says.

Neville swallows and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yes?”

“You weren’t ugly when we were at school.” Draco drops his hand to his side. “Ever. You never were.”

“Wha--”

“I just want you to know that.” Draco nods definitively.

Neville gapes at him. Draco darts forward, kisses him gently on the cheek, and then slips out the door and shuts it behind him.

Neville moves to the door, hand already out to fling it open so he can dash after him, but he doesn’t. He stands there like a fool, one hand on the doorknob, and knows that if he runs after Draco now, he really will never see him again. Neville taps his fingers absently against the door, then backs away. He looks around the apartment. It’s something of a wreck; dishes everywhere, stray pieces of clothing dropped wherever they were removed. He needs to spell it all tidy and hide his wand before his flatmates get home. He needs to do several dozen feet of writing on proper maintenance of the wiggentree. He needs to stop thinking things like: _Nothing has ever been like that before and now I don’t want anything else._ And: _I could fix it. Everything. If he’d let me._

For a while, though, he just stands there, catching his breath and feeling sorry for himself. And he decides he can be patient. As patient as he’s ever been with himself, he can be patient with Draco Malfoy.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the end of the first half (ish) of this story. Sorry to leave you with the sad feels, but I PROMISE to make it all better in the next half. Thank you for reading, and I hope you will come yell with me on twitter @meansgirlwrites!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the handful of folks reading this. I love this ship so much and I'm so glad you're all into it with me! Hooray! This chapter is without a beta, but hopefully I caught my own errors and didn't leave massive holes in the story ;)

_Two Years Later_

Draco quits his job in the middle of a blazing hot summer, on a Friday, so he’ll have the entire weekend to quietly panic before he has to move house and start his new position on Monday.

He planned this very carefully, because he knows himself well enough now to know that he is going to be eaten alive by anxiety for at least a short period of time after a decision this big. This decision, which is sure to cause his mother to take to her bed, was necessary. Draco _knows_ this. He knows, and tries to remember, that he deserves to have done it. He _hated_ that job with every fiber of his being and, as he’s learning, he doesn’t actually have to be miserable if he doesn’t want to be.

“So there,” he mutters to himself, standing outside his former place of work, a box only about a third full of his things in his arms. He can’t wait to tell his muggle therapist how well he did with all of this. Once the panicking is over, later, of course.

“You’re blocking the door,” says a witch Draco hadn’t noticed trying to pass him.

“Oh!” He steps to the side. “I beg your pardon.”

She gives him the familiar look, the one that says she recognizes him a bit but isn’t sure why, but thankfully she doesn’t linger to try and figure it out. Once she’s inside the door, Draco decides it’s time to get out of the way. He shrinks the box full of items from his former desk and pockets it. He looks to the left, and then the right, trying to decide in which direction he should go.

Left will take him to the closest floo hub and his flat, which is packed up now since he won’t be able to afford it on his new salary. Right could take him pretty much anywhere, but specifically Draco is thinking of a small pub that serves a decent supper. He could use a drink.

Decision made with little hesitation, Draco sets off to the right. He’s about two blocks off Diagon, so it’s a bit crowded but not stiflingly so. He moves quickly around the slow walkers and window shoppers, but takes a moment every so often to see what’s so interesting. He nearly trips over a stray cat before pausing to pet it, and stops to pick up an old woman’s dropped bag. He walks faster, eyes darting for things to notice, things to stall him. Anything to keep his mind occupied and off of what he’s just done.

 _Be careful what you wish for_ is an expression that Draco has had illustrated for him plenty of times in his life, but there is no instance he can think of that is more of a slap in the face than the one that occurs just as he thinks: _I need a distraction,_ and Neville Longbottom walks out of the very pub Draco is approaching.

Draco nearly trips over his own feet. This has happened before-- he has caught sight of many men who, from the side, or at a distance, bore some resemblance to Neville. But they’ve always been strangers. He’s always found himself thinking: _he actually looks more like Longbottom when we were kids._ Or: _Stupid, he’s too short, doesn’t look like him at all._ But Draco knows without a shadow of a doubt that the man exiting the The Hippogriff Arms is in fact Neville Longbottom, which is funny, because he’s gone and grown a beard. Draco blinks. The beard is good. It’s very, very good.

Draco is frozen there on the sidewalk, a thousand thoughts passing through his equally frozen brain in the split second it takes for recognition to hit. Then another man comes out the door behind Neville, who looks to him with a sweet smile. Draco needs to move. He can’t. He watches Neville say something that is probably casually endearing and sincere to the man. He watches the man give Neville a lovestruck smile. He watches the man say something and go in for a hug. He watches Neville kiss the man on the cheek.

Draco finally moves, taking one step backward. This, of course, is what catches Neville’s attention. Before Draco can turn on his heel and escape the scene of what is clearly the end of a date between the man with whom Draco had once had a dirty weeknd and gotten inappropriately and inadvisably emotionally attached, and said inappropriate and inadvisable man’s _boyfriend_ , Neville performs a perfect double-take in his direction and says, “Oh!”

Once again, Draco can’t move. He stares at Neville--bearded, somewhat broader, a little bit softer round the middle, same kind eyes--and Neville stares back at him. Draco wonders how different he must look. He cut his hair when he got the job with Ibex & Bucks Investments. Long hair made him look too much like his father. He thinks he probably looks older. Old, even, for twenty-four. The shadows and lines on his face were one of a thousand reasons he quit his job this afternoon. But what Draco sees and what Neville sees are sure to be two drastically different things.

“Draco?” Neville hazards, after a silence that feels like it lasts an age.

“H--” Draco clears his throat. “Hello.”

“It _is_ you,” Neville breathes, and steps away from his companion.

Draco’s eyes dart between the two, and he feels the rise of unease in his chest. This is going to be so awkward, and there is absolutely _no way_ to avoid it. Neville steps forward and into Draco’s space, grabbing Draco’s hand almost as if he’s going to shake it but he doesn’t, he just squeezes Draco’s fingers in his own. Draco gapes up at him (he’s very tall) and feels himself blush (Neville is blushing a bit, too) and tries to keep his facial expression under control (Neville’s face is so open and happy and sweet).

“I didn’t know you were back at home,” Neville is saying.

“I’m--” Draco manages to swallow his nerves. “For just over a year, yes.”

“That’s wonderful,” Neville says, eyes warm and lips stretched into a guileless smile. “How are you?”

Draco glances nervously at the man standing just beyond Neville’s shoulder. “I’m well, thank you. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh!’ Neville flushes more. “So sorry!” He angles his body to include the third man in the conversation. Curiously, he doesn’t let go of Draco’s hand. “This is Graham, an old friend of  mine. Graham, this is Draco. We were at school together.”

Draco raises his eyebrows in surprise at that introduction, though he’s not sure how else Neville could’ve handled it. “Pleasure to meet you,” Draco says. He would shake Graham’s hand, but Neville _is still holding his_ while staring down at him with an expression Draco can’t read.

“Likewise,” Graham says, a bemused smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He’s quite handsome, Draco can admit, in a smarmy sort of way. Graham looks between the two of them and nods. “Well, I should be off.”

Draco shakes his head and makes to pull his hand from Neville’s warm grip. “Oh no, I wouldn’t want to--”

“I’ll see you, Graham,” Neville says, barely glancing his way. Draco very nearly sputters.

“Sure,” Graham laughs. “It was lovely catching up, Nev. And meeting you, Drake, was it?”

“Yes,” Draco says in a daze. “Lovely.”

Graham snorts and claps Neville on the shoulder, then walks off with a shake of his head.

“He calls you _Nev?”_ Draco blurts, watching Graham walk away.

“Yeah, I hate it,” Neville says absently. “I can’t believe it’s you. What-- Should we-- let’s go sit somewhere and--”

Draco feels short of breath. “Oh, I can’t,” he finds himself saying.

“Oh.” Neville’s face falls. “Really? Well, could I-- Would it be alright if I owl you? Where are you living these days?”

“I’m moving, actually, to Hogsmeade this week,” Draco says. Neville is _still_ holding his hand, and he doesn't know how to make that stop. He needs to, though, because he can’t think.

Neville’s grinning again. “Oh? That’s convenient.”

“What? Why is it?”

“Because I moved to Hogsmeade this summer, too. Maybe we’ll be neighbors.”

Draco feels faint, and itchy, and overwhelmed. He feels exposed and tired and terrified. “Well,” he manages. “Well. I suppose that might be nice.”

“Are you sure we can’t find somewhere to talk?” Neville asks hopefully. “It’s so good to see you, I’ve...I think about you. Often.”

Draco could choke, he really could, on the words that he wants to say but just doesn’t know how. “I...can’t. I have an appointment.”

“Right,” Neville nods. He squeezes Draco’s hand again, then releases it slowly, reluctantly. “I’d love to run into you in Hogsmeade.”

“I’m sure you will,” Draco says, voice steady by some miracle. “You...you look very well.”

Neville laughs, tossing his head back. “God,” he says. “You sound so familiar. And likewise. You, Draco Malfoy, are a sight for sore eyes.”

Draco wants to grab Neville by the hand and drag him into the pub. He wants to slam the two of them down in a booth and lean across the table and say _I quit my disgustingly lucrative and soul crushing job today to go keep books for an old lady who runs a tiny apothecary and it’s going to make my mother furious. I’m in therapy, do you know about therapy? Does Granger go to muggle therapy? Do you? You should. Potter_ really _should. I’m a different person than the one you shagged for a weekend two years ago. Do you want to do it again? Are you still unutterably perfect? Would you like to give me beard burn all over my body?_

But he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_ do it. Because he just quit his job, and he’s going to have to tell his mother. Because he needs to tell his therapist that he ran into the man who ruined him, and how lovely he still is, and make sure he’s allowed to do things like go to pubs with him and pour out his soul and ask him to rub Draco’s thighs raw with his face.

So he says, “I’m so sorry, but I really have to go.”

“I understand,” Neville says easily. “Can I owl you at your new place?”

Draco nods, deciding in a split second that it’s probably okay to say yes. He gives Neville his address. Neville pulls out a _pen and notebook_ to write it down, which is adorable.

“I’m going to owl you,” Neville says firmly, “and ask you out.”

“Wha--”

“Would that be alright?”

Draco doesn’t stammer, but only because he says nothing. He does manage to nod.

“Good,” Neville says, and a smile like that should break a person’s face in two.

Draco doesn’t know how he can _smile_ like that and not look ridiculous. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay.” Neville nods back. “See you later.”

“Yeah.”

“Great.”

“Good.” Draco turns to head back the way he came, toward the job he just quit and the floo station beyond. “Bye, then.”

“Bye, Draco.”

Draco can’t look at him, as much as he wants to see the laughter in his voice reflected in his eyes. Draco just nods again and sets off, his face aflame, shaking hands shoved deep in his pockets. He doesn’t look over his shoulder.

***

Draco ends up going back to the flat he needs to vacate in two days’ time, looking around at the small pile of boxes by the door and the walls that have been empty since the day he moved in.

He never liked the place. It’s posh, but in a modern, muggle-chic way. It’s barely even in Wizarding London, in a new district favored by young professionals such as himself. His neighbors on either side are in the financial sector, too. Draco doesn’t like them. This building is full of foreigners with high degrees from wizarding/muggle institutions, each ready to help bring British wizards into the capitalist world. It’s the exact thing Draco is supposed to be doing, right now. He should be hunched over his desk at work this moment, working to dismantle everything the goblins have built for centuries, only stopping to uncrack his neck enough to throw back a few cocktails at a late happy hour.

It’s six o’clock in the evening, and Draco has nowhere to be for the first time in a year.

“Good fucking riddance,” Draco mutters to himself.

Another look around the flat reminds him that it really isn’t any sort of pleasant place to be right now, if ever it was. He turns back to the fireplace and grabs a pinch of powder out of the crystal dish on the mantle.

“Finch-Fletchley parlor,” he says into the flames, then sticks his head in. “Pans?”

He doesn’t see her, but he can hear her voice. “Come through, Draco. Bring a bag, of course, you’re not staying in that horrid empty flat by yourself tonight.”

“How do you know that’s why I’m calling?” He shouts. “Where are you?”

“Putting the girls down for a nap, you plonker, and you’re interrupting! Come through!”

Draco mutters to himself about pushy know-it-alls and crawls backward out of his fireplace. He summons his overnight bag and tosses it through. He spares the flat a backward glance before stepping in himself.

He won’t miss it. Not one bit. He’ll come back to shrink and transport his boxes, and that will be that.

“Good riddance,” he murmurs again, then steps through the flames to Pansy’s place.

***

Pansy feeds him supper and pours wine down his throat and doesn’t ask why he looks worn out and doesn’t want to talk much. She plops a baby in his lap eventually, and sits across from him in her sitting room with the other twin nursing in her arms, and she waits him out.

Draco stares down at the baby, Clarissa, who is staring up at him with an expectant expression like her mother’s. She’s quite lovely, Clarissa, just as lovely as her sister Lisette. Draco has doted on them from the moment they were born. He probably purchased two thirds of their wardrobe on his own.

“Sorry love,” Draco murmurs. “Uncle Draco is to be a common peasant now, and won’t be able to afford designer robes for the infant jet set. But I promise to pinch my pennies and get you and your sister a pony each for your third birthday.”

“You’re an idiot,” Pansy says.

Draco ignores her. “Clarissa,” he croons. “Mummy’s being a real bi--”

“ _Watch it.”_

“She can’t understand me,” Draco grumbles. Then, to his little goddaughter. “Your mummy is wonderful. I apologize for my misstep.”

“Better,” Pansy says. “Now talk to me, not the baby. We’ve talked about this.”

“I just like them so much better,” Draco says plainly, looking up from the baby’s slowly drooping eyes. “They’re so much kinder to me.”

“You have to pay attention to me,” Pansy insists, shifting in her seat. “Toss me that pillow, my arm is killing me.”

Draco levers himself up and out of his seat, balancing Clarissa on one arm so he can hand across a tufted velvet throw pillow. Pansy shoves it under one elbow and rearranges herself with a sigh.

“Right,” she says. “Shall we talk about the big move? How was Narcissa when you told her?”

Draco hesitates.

“You didn’t tell her, how surprising,” Pansy deadpans. “Draco…”

“I’ll tell her when I tell her,” Draco says with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine.”

“Of course it’s fine that you’re doing this, I’ve told you and told you. And the muggle you pay to be your friend agrees.”

“That’s not what a therapist is,” Draco says for the ten thousandth time.

“The longer you put off telling your mother, the worse it’s going to be,” Pansy insists, ignoring him like she always does.

“The thing is,” Draco says, absently jiggling the baby in his lap to help her doze off again. “I don’t actually need her to be fine with it or pleasant about it. So what does it matter?”

“You’re going to eat yourself alive worrying about it,” Pansy replies. “So just get it over with.”

“Mmm,” Draco tilts his head from side to side. “We’ll see. Anyway, something happened today.”

“Other than quitting your job?”

“Yes, other than that.”

“Good lord,” Pansy sighs. “Give me a second. Here, take this one.”

Pansy straightens and passes Lisette to Draco so she can arrange whatever she needs to arrange under the flowing fabric of her robes--Draco doesn’t know what goes on with Pansy’s breasts, and he doesn’t feel any need to know, so he politely averts his gaze to both sleeping girls.

“Alright, I can take one,” Pansy says after a moment, and when Draco looks up, she’s got her arms out, but she looks tired and uncomfortable, so he shakes his head.

“I can handle both. Relax.”

“You’re a treasure.” She grins at him and flops back in the wingback chair in a fashion that would horrify both of their mothers. She flings one leg over the arm of the chair and wriggles to get comfortable. “Right. Go. Tell me.”

“I saw Neville Longbottom in Diagon Alley right after I quit my job. Moments after.”

Pansy’s eyes go wide and she stills in her fidgeting. She pauses, then sighs. “Of _course_ you did.”

“It didn’t go well,” Draco says. “He wanted to go somewhere and talk and I brushed him off.”

“Draco, you were probably on the verge of a full meltdown, you’ve been so agitated about this.”

“Well, yes.” Draco is glad of the soft, warm weight of the twins in his lap, of the need to keep them there with his arms on either side. It gives him something to do, a way to keep from talking with his hands and getting all worked up. “But he just moved to Hogsmeade and we might be _neighbors_.”

Pansy pauses again, then giggles.

“Don’t laugh, Pans.”

“Sorry,” she says, but he knows she isn’t. She giggles some more. “It’s just so perfect.”

“How is it perfect?” Draco demands. “This is a disaster!”

“Shhh, don’t wake the girls.” Pansy shakes her head. “Draco, you wanted to see him again.”

“But.” Draco shifts, unable to sit entirely still. “But _later,_ when I’m better.”

“I can’t respond to that,” Pansy says. “That’s for your muggle friend to yell at you about. Later is now, Draco. That’s all I’m saying.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “It feels like I’m moving backwards.”

“You’ve become a real live boy,” Pansy corrects. “That’s progress.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” Draco grouches, casting his gaze around the formal sitting room. “Lady of the manor that you are.”

“From what I know about Longbottom, he has a manor left from his grandmother, that old vulture. Play your cards right and you, too, could be Lady of your very own stately home.”

“Ugh,” Draco says with feeling. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t know why you insist on pretending you want this life anymore,” Pansy sighs. “You are so contrary. _Pansy,_ you said. _I don’t want to be a soulless rich bastard._ So I said you should be whatever you want to be. And you said _Oh! No! I can’t! I must martyr myself forever! I am a self fulfilling prophecy, haven’t you heard?_ And I said, get your head out of your arse! And you said--”

“Merlin,” Draco laughs. “You harpy, shut _up.”_

“It’s how I remember the conversation,” Pansy shoots back.

“It’s a somewhat accurate summary.” Draco sniffs. “Still. I don’t know.”

“So dramatic,” Pansy pouts. “Just have a drink with him. How did he look?”

“So good,” Draco sighs. “Ugh.”

“I still say I’ll believe it when I see it,” Pansy says. “Though he did look like he’d grown into his teeth in that Witch Weekly spread just after the war. Miracles happen.”

“Bitch,” Draco whispers affectionately, cupping his hands over one tiny baby ear each. “Be nice.”

“If I ever meet him, I shall endeavor to be the _nicest.”_ Pansy stretches in her seat and yawns. “Listen, I have to get those girls in their cribs and pass out so I can feed them again at arse o’clock at night. Justin’s sleeping at Mungo’s tonight since he’s on-call. Want to stay down here in the library or go up to bed? I have your usual room made up.”

“I’ll find my way up later,” Draco says. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“You could move in permanently,” Pansy remarks, taking Lisette from Draco’s arms and summoning the wicker bassinet from the corner to lay her in. Draco sets Clarissa beside her and strokes their soft cheeks. “I wouldn’t mind having your helping hands more often.”

“You have fifteen house elves,” Draco says with a roll of his eyes.

Pansy nudges him with her hip and whispers in his ear, “But you’re my favorite house elf.”

They stand and stare down at the babies for a long moment. Then, Pansy kisses Draco quickly on the cheek and levitates the bassinet in front of her and out of the room. Draco watches them go, gratitude swelling in his chest. He calls quietly for a house elf to bank the fire in the sitting room, and asks for a glass of water to take with him to the Finch-Fletchley home library.

The house elf is accomodating, but doesn’t say much to Draco. The Malfoys have a bad reputation with house elves. Draco isn’t offended by the cold shoulder.

He ends up curled up on the chaise in the library, an herbological text open in his lap, because Pansy’s right. He’s very dramatic.

His eyes can’t focus on the words on the page. He can’t help but return over and over in his mind to the moment that Neville Longbottom recognized him today. The way his face lit up.

Draco thinks of all the things he wishes he could have said.

_I miss you._

_I think of you every day._

_You’re the reason I decided to do better._

_I just quit my job because one time you told me I was trying to be a better person and I want that to be true._

He resolves that he will say these things, at some point. He falls asleep on the chaise without meaning to. He dreams of Salem and his cramped dormitory and the breeze that fluttered the curtains in Neville Longbottom’s bedroom.

***

Breaking the news to his mother goes as he expected. Her face freezes before it can reveal any sort of reaction, which is a reaction in and of itself. She calls him _dear_ and says things like _if you think this is best_ and _your allowance should help until you’re ready_. Draco doesn't bother telling her not to hold her breath. He’s got no intention of going back to that job or any like it. She might pull his allowance if he says that, and he’ll need that so he can save money for his plan.

Narcissa changes the subject before Draco can talk about what he _will_ be doing, but that’s for the best. He suffers through tea, asks after his father’s condition even though he doesn't actually want to know, and compliments the flower arrangements. The townhouse his mother rents now is no Malfoy Manor, but she keeps it as if it is. Resplendent and replete and cold and soulless.

Draco doesn't linger; he has a flat to unpack.

His new flat is situated at the far end of Hogsmeade, just before the village gives way to Scottish countryside. It’s in an entirely different country from his mother’s chilly house, but he arrives by floo, having just had his fireplace connected to the network. One moment, he’s surrounded by the Black portraits his mother was permitted to take from the manor before it was seized, and the next, he’s in the cozy one-bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a water stain on the ceiling. Draco’s shoulders relax the moment he steps out onto the hearth.

He spends the afternoon unshrinking furniture. Only a few pieces came with him from his old place; he sold the rest. Other items were bought second-hand or on the cheap. The only thing Draco spent real money on was the sofa. He has strong feelings about sofas. His new one is pale green and takes up most of the living area of his new flat. It’s soft and squishy and he might just sleep on it tonight instead of making up his bed.

By evening, the living room is lit by two softly glowing lamps and is packed full of furniture. The bookshelves are empty. The desk is piled high with books and boxes full of parchment,, quills, and ledgers. Draco doesn't have a dining table, but he gets the kitchen set up to his liking. Muggle appliances are in vogue these days, and he bought a coffee maker the day before. He hasn’t had muggle drip coffee in over a year. He’s missed it.

Draco is satisfied with his little corner of the world for now. If nothing else, it does feel like his, like what he wants. He remembers looking around his old flat the first night he spent there and feeling like he was beginning the first night of another sentence, another period of waiting. This night doesn't feel that way at all. The old flat had been extravagant, the polar opposite of the tiny dormitory Draco had lived in the previous four years. It hadn’t been the sort of place Draco was raised to want, but it had been just this side of nouveau riche to keep up appearances, to keep his mother happy. How he had _hated_ it.

This place falls somewhere between the tiny room in which he had spent his exile, and the lofty elegance he had tried to learn to love again. This place reminds him of a tiny apartment in Salem. It’s good. Draco thinks he can _be_ good here.

He picks up a book and falls onto his absurdly comfortable sofa with a groan. He uses his wand to start a fire in the grate and smiles to himself.

It’s not home just yet. But it can be. It will be.

***

He starts his new job the next day. Draco survived three interviews with Golda Gooseberry, owner and sole proprietor of Gooseberry’s Gallipot, Hogsmeade’s only apothecary and greenhouse. Those meetings had done nothing to lessen what he feels is a healthy amount of fear of the woman, who doesn’t speak so much as bark orders, and towers over Draco despite the stoop to her shoulders.

She’s ancient, but sharp as a tack. Draco wouldn’t be here if not for her failing eyesight. She needs someone to record orders and shipments, do the books and balance the register each day, and run errands around town when she has need. Her grandson, a squib, does some work for her on weekends, but, as she told Draco, “The poor sod hasn’t the head for numbers, and I need someone smart as well as trustworthy.”

This had been during his second interview, and Draco had mustered up the courage to ask what he’d wondered since he received Golda’s owl summoning him for an interview, the only response he received to any of the dozens upon dozens of CV’s he sent out.

“And you find _me_ trustworthy?” He had asked, fidgeting a bit.

“Sit still, boy,” Golda had snapped. “Do I find you trustworthy? I find you terrified to make one wrong move, and that’s close enough.”

“Oh--” Draco had blinked. “Well I suppose I can work with that.”

“You’ll prove to be a good egg afterall or the snake everyone assumes you to be sooner or later,” Golda had growled. “If you cross me, I’ll have you drawn and quartered. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Draco had said faintly. “Does this mean I have the job?”

“I have to think about it,” she shouted. “Get out and come back next Thursday afternoon. We’ll have tea.”

Draco had the job by the end of that third meeting. Golda had made him touch every ingredient in the storeroom and tell her about it. She had nodded and waved him out again, saying, “You start in two weeks. Tell those buggers at I&B to sod off. See you then. Get out.”

And now here Draco stood, before the rickety desk in the back room of the Gallipot, which he will call home for thirty hours each week, staring at the tasteful flower arrangement sitting in the center of it.

“Golda?” He calls. Golda is just behind him poking at the cleaning supplies, looking for something. He looks over his shoulder. She hasn’t heard him. “Er. Golda.”

Nothing.

Draco picks up a heavy paperweight and drops it with a bang. “ _Golda!”_

“Merlin’s _pants,_ boy, _what?”_ The witch swings around and squints at him.

“Thank you for the flowers?”

Golda snorts. “I don’t give gifts to employees.”

“I’m your only employee. Ever.”

“It’s a new rule,” she sneers. “Those arrived by owl this morning. There’s a card.”

Draco raises his eyebrows and digs among the pretty blooms until he finds it, a tiny notecard with auto-quill words printed neatly across: _Best of luck on your first day!_

“Huh,” Draco says, flipping the card over in his hand. No name on the back.

“Yes, yes, you’re very popular.” Golda snatches up a rag and a bottle of cleaning potion. “Get to work, already.”

“Right, sorry.” Draco stuffs the card in his pocket and gently scoots the flower arrangement to the side. “I’ll just look over the outgoing orders for the day.”

“Splendid,” Golda grunts, then clomps out of the room with a roll of her eyes.

***

Draco has to walk from one end of the village to the other to get to and from work. On his first day, he makes the trip back with an arm full of flowers and a head full of numbers. He already has ideas for how he can help Golda increase her bottom line without losing customers or cutting back on her pro-bono work with St. Mungo’s, and while he mulls that over, part of his brain turns over the question of the flowers. He’d sent an owl off to Pansy with the afternoon invoices, thanking her for the bouquet. It was out of character for her, but perhaps motherhood had softened her heart. Draco would floo her when he got in.

While he walked through Hogsmeade, Draco looked this way and that, taking in the changes since he was last here. He had been sixteen, he thinks, for his last Hogsmeade trip. He had seen it at night, other times after, but had been shaking and nauseous with fear and can’t remember much about it. It looks disconcertingly the same, now that he’s looking. Draco sighs. It’s not that he _wants_ Hogsmeade to look as scarred as he feels, it’s just...strange.

He occupies himself with thoughts of supper, of whether he should buy an owl soon, of his mother, and tries not to look for a specific face in the thin crowds making their way home at this time of day. Draco has very carefully not wondered about Neville these past few days and it has served him well. He’s focused enough to have slept on his sofa only the first night, his flat having been just about totally unpacked over the course of the next day, with Pansy calling in to heckle him from the flames for a bit.

Now, he can’t help but keep his eyes open, keep his head about him in case Neville comes round a corner, so as not to be taken completely by surprise. He does not see him, however, and tells himself he’s not disappointed.

He calls Pansy once he sets down his things, including the flowers.

When he asks, she screws up her face and scoffs. “I didn’t send you flowers, you tosser, who do you think I am?”

Draco flips her the bird and ends the call, shuffling back out of the fire with a frown. His eyes fall on the bouquet situated neatly on his little side table, and he says for the second time that day, “Huh.”

***

Two weeks later on a Friday night, Draco finds himself being shuffled out of his flat by Pansy Finch-Fletchley née Parkinson, her husband Justin Finch-Fletchley, formerly known as the prat they never spoke to at school and currently known as a fairly decent bloke who inexplicably seems to love Draco’s best and only remaining friend, and Justin’s little sister Honoria, whose presence has not been explained to Draco.

They’re forcing him out for celebratory drinks at the Three Broomsticks to commemorate his new, non-soul-sucking job, and his new, shabby-but-cozy flat. Draco is protesting even as the door to the flat slams shut behind them.

“Slytherins are probably persona non grata at a place like the Broomsticks,” he says. “We’re going to get kicked out.”

“Please,” Pansy scoffs. “We’ve brought two Hufflepuffs along, we’ll be fine! Why d’you think I married this one? He’s my pass back into polite society.”

“Yeah!” Justin says cheerfully as he rolls his eyes at her. “That’s me! Your...buffer. Father of your children. Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Pansy agrees, nodding.

Honoria snorts and taps away at the muggle pocket phone she’s so obsessed with, but says nothing. Honoria doesn’t say much at all out loud, though she appears to be quite the talker in text form, judging by the steady stream of words on the tiny screen.

“We can have drinks here,” Draco insists as he’s pulled by both arms, a Finch-Fletchley on either side and one trailing behind, down the stairs and out of his building.

“We’re going out,” Pansy says, then launches into talk of her volunteer work with the Society for the Enrichment of the Lives of Magical Beings, Hermione Granger’s letter suggesting name changes for said Society, her general disdain for Hermione Granger, the quality of the dress robe she’s considering for her cousin’s wedding, and all manner of things Draco could care less about, but which keep him quiet while they traverse the length of Hogsmeade to the pub, Hogwarts glittering off in the distance.

The door to the Three Broomsticks swings open and a blast of spelled-cool air spills out into the summer night. Draco is shoved through the door, and the three Finch-Fletchley’s bring up the back, a wall to keep him from reversing right out the door again when the first person he sees upon entering the pub is _Harry Fucking Potter_.

“No,” Draco says, low. “No bloody way.”

“Oh, shit,” Honoria guffaws somewhere behind him.

“Well,” Pansy says breezily just as Potter looks up from where he’s waiting at the bar and takes notice of them. “This will be fun. Draco, go with Justin to that table over there. Hon and I will go for the first round.”

While Pansy snaps her fingers at her sister-in-law, Justin hauls Draco by the arm to a table. Draco tears his eyes away from Potter’s wide, surprised gaze, only to next notice the other two of the golden trio sat two tables away with Luna Lovegood. And Neville Longbottom.

“Justin,” Draco says in a whisper. “Get me out of here.”

“This is fine,” Justin says placidly. “I’m your service Hufflepuff, remember? It’s all fine.” To Draco’s horror, he lifts a hand and waves to the other table. “Oh-ho! Hello, you lot!”

They wave back-- Lovegood smiling in her misty way, Weasley with his mouth open like a fish, and Granger affecting an air of unflappable composure. Neville blinks in surprise and then smiles slowly, warmly, and waves right at Draco.

“Wave back, don’t be an idiot,” Justin says out of the corner of his mouth.

Draco does. Or, he manages to lift his hand up while staring uncomfortably.

Pansy and Honoria come bounding back and flop down into the extra chairs.

“Drinks are on their way,” Pansy says. She glances over her shoulder at the table of their former classmates, gives a little wiggle of her fingers, then turns to Draco. “My god,” she whispers. “He’s _here._ Look at him, you weren’t kidding!”

“God, please don’t do this to me here. Not now.”

The drinks arrive, and a double firewhiskey is pressed into Draco’s hand. Pansy stands and raises her glass. Draco groans.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” she announces, addressing only the three of them, but speaking loud enough for the entire _village_ to hear. Draco braces himself for an embarrassing speech, but Pansy just grins down at him and says. “To Draco. A real, live boy.”

“To Draco!” Justin responds with enthusiasm, knocking back half his pint.

“Drink, you prat,” Honoria whispers.

Draco does take a sip of his firewhiskey, his face burning. Pansy sits back down and leans over to kiss his cheek. “We came here to celebrate,” she says. “So loosen up.”

“I’m having a stroke is all,” Draco snipes. “Don’t mind me.”

“So dramatic,” Pansy moans, then starts grilling Draco about his first two weeks on the job, even though he’s already  told her the details at the end of every single day.

After a while, Honoria spots someone she knows and disappears to their table, and Pansy and Justin enter what Draco calls the Married Bubble. He doesn’t begrudge them the Bubble; in fact, he likes to see it. The two of them have shifted close together in increments, and now they sit with their heads bent together, discussing Justin’s plans to request a lighter schedule for a while so Pansy isn’t alone with the babies so much.

“We have fifteen house elves,” she says.

“And I miss all fifteen of them, and you, and the girls,” Justin tells her earnestly.

Draco never knew Pansy’s face could soften like that. He clears his throat, wiping the dopey smile off his own face before someone sees. “I’m going to the gent’s,” he tells them. Pansy smiles at him and nods, but her attention isn’t drawn much out of the Married Bubble.

Draco resolutely does not look anywhere but at his intended destination, weaving around tables and knots of people with single-minded focus. He  makes it to the little hallway with the restrooms just as Harry Potter is heading out in the opposite direction. Of course.

“Ah,” Potter stops in his tracks. “Malfoy. Er. Hello.”

Draco nods once. “Potter.”

“I...hope you’re well?” Potter isn’t looking him in the eye, but rather somewhere over Draco’s left shoulder.

“Yes,” Draco forces himself to say. “Quite well. And...your...self?”

Potter seems to lose his grip on himself then, snapping out of the thousand yard stare and finally looking Draco in the face as words come bursting from his mouth in the familiar clumsy manner Draco remembers from over half a decade ago. “I’m great. I think that’s enough for tonight, don’t you?”

Draco lets air he hadn’t realized he was holding whoosh from his lungs and nods frantically. “Yes, very sufficient, goodbye Potter.”

“Bye,” Potter says, and they slip past each other quickly and taking great care not to so much as brush arms in the narrow passageway.

Draco slams into the bathroom with a muffled shriek and is brought up short when Neville looks up, startled, from where he’s washing his hands.

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

Neville raises one eyebrow and says, “Evening, Draco.”

Draco stands rooted to the spot, staring at his own reflection--flushed, flustered, a little sweaty from the increasing heat of the pub as the crowds have grown--and Neville’s--handsome, soft, beard. “Good evening,” he hears himself say as if from a great distance. Back at his flat are two notes from one Neville Longbottom, one sent per week since Draco moved, to which Draco has been too cowardly to respond. Draco’s face flames.

Neville smirks to himself, dropping his eyes from the mirror as he pulls his hands away from the tap and then dries them. He turns and steps to Draco’s side. “When you’re finished in here,” he says softly. “You should let me buy you a drink.”

Draco nods numbly, and gets out of the way so Neville can leave. Neville has the temerity to _wink_ at him before the door swings shut and Draco manages to hold in his whimper until he’s sure he won’t be heard.

“Buggering, bloody fuckering, fuck, fuck, shit, _balls_ ,” he whisper-screams to himself, “Why is it always _like this,_ why?”

“I dunno, mate,” says a voice Draco thankfully _doesn’t_ recognize in one of the stalls. “But this one’s all out of paper, pass us a roll?”

Draco shrieks to himself again, grabs a roll of paper from an empty stall, pitches it over to where he thinks the voice came from, and slams out of the toilets with a growl of frustration.

***

After an embarrassing interlude in the hallway which Draco spends Disillusioned so he won’t be seen by whoever that was in the toilets (when the man exits, Draco doesn’t recognize him), Draco finally makes it in and out of the loo without incident. He splashes some water on his face and pats it dry, fixes his hair, and gives himself a little pep talk, then returns to the pub. Pansy and Justin aren’t at the table any longer.

“Draco,” Pansy calls, striding over to him through the crowd. Her eyes are bright with excitement.  “Justin’s mother sent an urgent owl. It seems one of the girls levitated out of the crib!”

Draco immediately forgets the last ten minutes and grins. “This early? Which one?”

“Mum isn’t sure,” Justin pipes up. “But my money’s on Lisette.”

“Genius children, both of my goddaughters,” Draco says, clapping Justin on the shoulder and kissing Pansy on the cheek. “Go! Of course, go, take photos for me.”

“Do you want to come along? It’s alright if you do,” Justin says.

“I...” Draco turns his head, eyes scanning. He skips over the table of Gryffindors-plus-Lovegood, and finds Neville watching him from a spot at the bar. It must be the sudden wash of excitement, but Draco is suddenly a great deal less nervous. He turns back to Justin and Pansy.  “No, you go, have your parenting victory together.”

Pansy follows the path Draco’s eyes had taken and smirks. “Alright then. Hon says she’ll floo back later so that’s sorted. I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe, for lunch?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and on impulse hugs them both tightly. “Congratulations.”

“And congratulations to you,” Pansy says softly in his ear. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Don’t pull a muscle, Pans,” he says gruffly. She pinches his cheek and lets Justin lead her out the door and into the night.

Draco watches them go, grateful all over again for Pansy and, to his eternal surprise, for Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Then, letting all that good feeling buoy him, and because his life is nothing if not circular, a snake eating its own tail, Draco turns and meets Neville Longbottom’s eyes from across a crowded pub.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm @meansgirlwrites on twitter! Come find me!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thank you's to BeltaineFaerie, again, for the cracking beta help!!

“Firewhiskey?” Neville asks, when Draco joins him at the bar. He kicks out the empty barstool beside him and Draco slides into it.

“Sounds perfect,” Draco replies. He’s still grinning like a fool, filled to bursting with good news for once.

“I’d ask if everything is alright, but considering the look on your face and the fact you didn’t go with them, I assume all is well with the Finch-Fletchleys?”

“One of my goddaughters exhibited magic tonight,” Draco says, resisting  the urge to clutch his own heart. “As I’ve said all along, she’s advanced; they both are. Twins, four months of age.”

“That’s lovely,” Neville says. He signals for the bartender--not Madame Rosmerta, but a younger wizard Draco has never seen before. “Two, please, Janus,” Neville says, lifting his mostly empty tumbler. He turns back to Draco and asks, “What are their names?”

“Clarissa and Lisette,” Draco says, “The two most perfect human beings ever born.”

Neville smiles softly at him. “Were you in touch with Pansy, before? When you were in America?”

“Not enough,” Draco says as their drinks arrive. Draco takes a quick sip for courage, to keep him talking to Neville as if this is a normal thing that’s happening. “But some. When I moved home, she dragged me kicking and screaming out of my horrid flat as often as she could. She was _so_ pregnant for most of that, but she could still tow me around by the ear if it came to it. She was always one of my oldest friends, but this past year she’s become my best friend, really. Justin’s not so bad, either. Amazing how the two of them get on.”

“An unlikely pair,” Neville says with an ironic smirk. Draco wills himself not to blush. Neville knocks their ankles together when he shifts on his barstool. “So, you’re working here in town?”

“At Gooseberry’s, yes.” Draco leans his elbow on the bar and his cheek in his hand, swiveling his seat back and forth a bit. The second double firewhiskey is hitting him a bit harder than expected, and he feels loose and warm. Content. “I’m bookkeeping for Golda, helping out here and there. It’s nice. And you?”

“Oh,” Neville flushes and takes a deep drink of his whiskey. “Well, that’s why we’re out tonight. Celebrating. It’s official; I start my training with Professor Sprout next month.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “You mean...You’re taking over her post? When?”

“Probably next school year,” Neville says, rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous gesture that sends Draco back in time to a tiny kitchen in a muggle flat. “If she thinks I’m ready.”

 _“Professor Longbottom,”_ Draco pronounces. “Well, well, well.”

Neville laughs and kicks at his ankle. “When you say it like that I get nervous all over again,” he says.

“Well you _should_ be nervous,” Draco teases. “Those children are going to eat you _alive.”_

Neville laughs, and then they’re off, an easy back and forth. Draco says something about teenagers following handsome young Professor Longbottom around like a line of ducklings, and Neville ignores the compliments and wonders aloud why they never had a sexy professor in school. Draco neatly disregards the brief existence of Lockhart in all their lives and suggests that to discount lovely old McG was ageist. Neville guffaws and insists that he’s not ageist and in fact, Binns wasn’t all that bad looking, was he? Draco groans and slips easily into a droning impression he hasn’t done in years.

“God but you’re good at that,” Neville says, getting himself under control and waving to Janus for two more drinks. “I think I remember you claiming to have picked up the talent in school.”

“Not a lie,” Draco says smoothly. There’s a beat of silence. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Neville echoes, his eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass. He sets it down, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re sitting there, next to me, sorry, it’s... I’ve wanted to run into you again so badly for so long.”

“Me too,” Draco says, relieved that the subject has been brought up at last. “I shouldn’t have been so absolute, back then. I should have let you call, or owl me. I wanted to find out where you were after Salem, I just-- Even after I got back here and started to really handle all the things I needed to deal with, I wasn’t sure it was the right time. I didn’t know if you would want to hear from me, and I didn’t want to find out if the answer was no.”

“The answer would never have been no,” Neville says, shaking his head. “I went back to that bar, where we met that first night, every weekend for a month. I even loitered around Harvard for a day before I decided I was being ridiculous, and probably a bit creepy.”

“Well, yes, that is a bit creepy,” Draco says with a handwave. “But I was overly dramatic, so we could call it even. It’s fine. I regretted doing things the way I did,” Draco says. “I’ve wanted, for so long, to thank you again for what you did for me that weekend.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Neville protests, shrugging and looking away. “I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“You listened to me,” Draco insists. “And you treated me like a person. And, let’s face it, the sex. It was--”

“Un-bloody-believable,” Neville says with a low chuckle. “Unmatchable, actually.”

“Oh?”

“For me, yes.”

Draco feels his face go hot. “I, uh. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t tested any theories.”

Neville’s eyes go wide. He opens his mouth to say something about that, but they’re interrupted by Hermione Granger. Or, Draco supposes, judging by the ring, Hermione Weasley these days.

“Neville?” She says softly, touching his shoulder to get his attention, then nodding vaguely in Draco’s direction. “Hello, Draco, nice to see you.”

Draco nods at her, his eyes flicking nervously to Weasley, hanging off his wife’s shoulder and giving Draco a drunken stink-eye.

“I’ve no idea where Harry’s gone off to, but we’re headed home,” Hermione says. “We’ll see Luna off on our way to the apparition point.”

“Right,” Neville nods. “Okay. I’ll see you soon, at the quidditch match Tuesday?”

“Not me,” Hermione says. “But yes, Ronald will meet you there with Harry and Dean.”

“Yeah, Neville,” Weasley says meaningfully, glaring at Draco in what is probably supposed to be an intimidating manner. “I’ll see you then, all safe and sound.”

Neville rolls his eyes and punches Weasley on the shoulder. “Stand down, Auror Weasley. I’ll see you then.”

“Goodnight, Neville,” Hermione says with a laugh. “And you, Draco.”

On his way past, Weasley leans into Draco’s space and says. “You didn’t see me but I punched you in the nose once, and I’ll do it again. Watch it, there.”

“Right.” Draco nods. “Sure.”

“Come _on_ , Ronald,” Hermione snaps, and he follows her doggedly.

Draco turns back to Neville and says, “I don’t know when he could have punched me in the fa--”

Realization hits Draco like the Hogwarts Express and he freezes. Neville clears his throat and looks away, biting his lip in a clear attempt to keep from laughing.

“Oh, _hell.”_ Draco drains the last of his whiskey and grabs up the fresh one already waiting for him on the bar. “Of _course.”_

“I’ve heard the story a time or two,” Neville admits. “Nearly once a week for a while after I let slip that I had...met you. In America.”

Draco feels a sick rush of panic. “You _told_ them?”

“Not the details!” Neville jumps to say. His hand goes to Draco’s arm. “I swear! I mentioned we had run into one another and that we talked quite a lot. That’s all, I swear.”

Draco sighs his relief. “No, I mean, it wouldn’t be fair of me to be upset even if you had.”

“I didn’t, though.”

“Well, I told Pansy everything,” Draco blurts, one hand coming up to cover his eyes. “Sorry. I was drunk.”

Neville snorts, then really laughs, head tossed back the same way it had a couple of weeks ago outside the pub in Diagon Alley. Neville laughs with his whole body, and it lights up his eyes from the inside.

Draco tries not to swoon.

“So Pansy Parkinson knows what I’m like in bed?”

“My depiction was favorable?” Draco tries.

“Well, that’s something, at least.”

Draco laughs weakly. Neville’s hand is still on his arm. His fingers squeeze, then stroke the skin there fleetingly before he pulls his hand away.

“I suppose I don’t mind,” Neville says eventually.

Draco sips his firewhiskey and resists the urge to touch the place where Neville’s fingers had just been.

“So what were you doing before the new job?” Neville asks after a comfortable silence.

“Horrible, immoral things,” Draco says with a tight smile. “I went into finance as expected. I was at Ibex & Bucks for a year.”

Neville winces.

“Yes,” Draco murmurs. “You can guess what it was like. Ruthless. Bloodless. Destructive.”

“You hated it,” Neville says, and not like it’s a guess. He says it like he knows.

Draco could kiss him, honestly. “So very much,” he says. “I knew before I even started at the firm that I wouldn’t be able to keep it up. I’m just not...I don’t know.”

“You’re not a bad person,” Neville says, and kicks at Draco’s ankle again. “Imagine that.”

“I try,” Draco says, because it’s the most honest thing he can say.

“I know,” Neville replies, and they stare at each other for a long, perfect moment.

Draco very badly wants to _kiss him._ He’s wanted to since the second he left that shabby flat two years ago. But he wouldn’t do it here. Not in the most public place imaginable, a walk away from Hogwarts, the scene of nearly _all_ Draco’s crimes. So, he finishes his drink in one long swig and says, “Walk me home? I’m at the end of the village.”

“Of course,” Neville says, going into his pocket for his wallet. Draco opens his mouth to protest, but Neville shakes his head. “I’m paying, shut it.”

“I was going to tell you to tip well,” Draco says, smooth and a bit snippy. He’s sure the firewhiskey is mostly to blame, but he hasn’t felt this at ease in so long.

Neville rolls his eyes, places coins on the bartop and waves to the bartender. Then, to Draco’s surprise, he takes Draco’s hand in his, and doesn’t let go even after they exit the pub.

***

Draco is convinced that Neville has cast some sort of charm over the two of them to keep their palms from sweating and keep the silence from turning awkward. They walk half a block without speaking, holding hands, and Draco doesn’t worry about whether he should pull away or find something intelligent to say. Neville uses his grip on Draco’s hand to steer him gently this way and that, around people walking the opposite direction, or to avoid cracks in the sidewalk. If Draco strays too far, he tugs him back in, their shoulders brushing, wrists touching. Goosebumps shiver up and down Draco’s arm, spreading from each little point of contact.

Neville lifts their clasped hands a bit and asks, “Is this okay? Sorry, I should have asked before I went dragging you around.”

Draco looks up at his profile, amazed and charmed. “It’s fine,” he says.

Neville glances down at him and smiles. “Good.” He lets their hands swing between them again. “Tell me about the Gallipot. I’ve been a few times. Actually, I wanted to apprentice with Golda in her greenhouses back during my first year out of Hogwarts. Everyone knows she’s the best around outside the institutions. She turned me down rather forcefully. A bit frightening, isn’t she?”

Draco laughs. “A _bit._ But I like her. She doesn’t want me there, really. Hiring someone on was a necessity, not something she was happy to do. Sometimes I think she chose me because I’m such a pariah that it’s better for both of us to pretend I’m not there at all. She’s not unkind to me, though, and the work is good. Useful.”

“You look good,” Neville says. “Happy, I mean. Happier than you were in America, but even since I ran into you in Diagon. Your color’s back.”

The fact that Neville notices his _color_ makes Draco want to throw himself down on the sidewalk and have a fit. He clears his throat. “Well. I am happy. Happier,” he says. “I’ve worked hard on it. I, ah... I decided to see a therapist.”

Neville pauses. They’re only about a third of the way to Draco’s flat, and they come to a stop outside of Puddifoot’s, the charmed street lights reflecting a soft glow off the violently pink exterior. The effect is not unlike muggle neon. Draco can’t read the look on Neville’s face in the wash of pink light. Is it curiosity? Confusion? Revulsion?

Draco clears his throat again. “Is that...not something I should say?”

“What?” Neville shakes his head quickly. “No, no, that’s amazing, it’s just I only know about therapists because of my old muggle roommates and the internet, and I didn’t think there were wizard therapists in England. Or anywhere.”

“That’s because there aren’t.” Draco shrugs. “I found mine with a little creative google searching.”

 _“Google searching,”_ Neville repeats, surprised.

“Well it seemed stupid to live three quarters of the way in the muggle world for as long as I did without learning how to _use_ things,” Draco says, defensive. Neville squeezes his hand and goes to speak, but Draco shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine, don’t go apologizing. I didn’t know how to use a television two years ago, your shock is justified. Anyway, I went online and looked up how to stop being a complete disaster of a person, and I learnt what therapy is. From there, it was a matter of finding one who would know at least something about the wizarding world.” He shrugs. “Anjali is my therapist. She’s the daughter of two squibs so, technically she’s a muggle. But she has magical family and was here for the war. She’s at enough of a remove that she didn’t toss me out the second we met, and I’ve been seeing her since I came back from Boston.”

“Wow,” Neville breathes. “That’s...I’m really impressed.”

“You’re impressed that I need to have a muggle explain to me how to be happy?”

Neville scoffs. “You know better than that, come on.”

“Yeah,” Draco admits with a wince. “Sorry, it’s a thing I do. A _defense mechanism._ Anyway, Anjali is quite good at not letting me get away with stupidity, and I’ve become quite good at it as well.”

“That’s very good,” Neville says. His smile is sweet. “I’m happy for you. I worried, you know.”

“You once said it was good to feel things. I took it to heart.” Draco averts his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable, and takes a step, tugging Neville along with him. “Come on, big moment over, we can walk some more.”

“Or we could stand around here all night,” Neville suggests, but he follows and they walk side by side again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Earlier, you said you hadn’t...ah, tested any theories? What...what did that mean?”

Draco’s cheeks burn. He can’t look up at Neville now, he _can’t._ He focuses on the sidewalk, on his own footfalls.

“It meant what it sounded like,” he says after a while. “Don’t get any strange ideas, I wasn’t _pining._ Let’s not dwell on it.”

“Alright,” Neville says easily. “I’m not judging, or anything.”

“Well, of course not, you wouldn’t.” Draco coughs. “Anyway. Suffice to say, my...romantic options have been limited to colleagues, and while I _did_ make an attempt at dating, my colleagues were all, down to the last man, a bunch of unrepentant sociopaths. Insufferable arseholes. So, beyond dinner and drinks, it turned out I wasn’t interested. Sometimes my interest died before the end of the first course. The less said about it the better.”

Neville chuckles. “And did you suffer through to pudding, or did you escape these terrible dates through the bathroom window?”

“I hexed at least two of them over hors d'oeuvres, and yes, on one occasion I did sneak out.”

“Good,” Neville laughs. “I’m glad.”

Draco smiles to himself. He’d like to take that to mean _I’m glad you weren’t with anyone else._ He shakes it away and bumps their shoulders together. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

Draco rolls his eyes and gives Neville’s hand a tug. “Come on, I shared several embarrassing personal things. Now you. Here, I’ll start you off: who was that man, that day at the Hippogriff? The one with hearts in his eyes?”

Neville wrinkles his nose. “Graham? He’s my ex. He’s _barely_ an ex. We had a brief fling ages ago. It was just lunch.”

“That’s inaccurate,” Draco argues. “He was going to make a move before I showed up, mark my words.”

“Well I wouldn’t have allowed it,” Neville says definitively. “I’ve no desire to revisit that ever again. He’s perfectly nice, but a bit up his own arse. Kind of stuck up.”

Draco has to draw to a stop and laugh. “My god, Longbottom,” he gasps. _“Have we met?”_

“What?”

Draco gestures at himself. _“I’m_ stuck up.”

“It’s not the same,” Neville protests.

Draco scoffs.

“It’s _not,”_ Neville insists.

“Explain that.”

Neville laughs, drawing him in close. He leans down a bit, bringing his lips close to Draco’s ear before Draco can react. Draco’s heart leaps into his throat.

“I _like_ you,” Neville says softly. “That’s the difference. You’re painfully posh, and too blunt, and you’re so _demanding._ Spoiled. _Bossy.”_

Draco sways forward. “Right, and?”

“And I still like you.”

“How do you know? You barely know me, really.”

Neville grins and steps away, tugging Draco along. “I dunno,” he says. “I just do.”

“That’s not an answer,” Draco protests.

“It’s the one you’re getting. We’re nearly out of road, here. Are we near your flat?”

Draco points to the little building a short way down the street. “Just there.”  

They reach it in silence and Neville stops at the door. “Thank you for letting me walk you home,” he says.

Draco swallows his nerves and says, “You could come up, if you like.”

“Could I?”

“You know you could,” Draco says. “I thought _walk me home_ would be taken as an invitation.”

“Hmmm.” Neville nods. “I did take it as one. But I don’t think I’ll come up, actually.”

Draco’s stomach drops. “Oh. Alright.”

Neville doesn’t let him pull his hand away, just pulls him close again. “It’s just,” he says, “here’s the thing. I was going to come up to your flat, but then just now I thought...it might be nice if you would let me take you on a date. A proper one, where you won’t want to hex me before the entree or run out through the kitchens.”

Draco can’t catch his breath. “You want to take me on a date.”

“Very much.”

“Well, I accept,” Draco says, giddy. “When?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick you up at six?”

“Fine.”

Neville grins. “Great.”

“You could still come up,” Draco says, knowing what the answer will be but wanting to hear it anyway. He can honestly say he’s never been more thrilled to be turned down.

“I could, but then we’ll never go on the date, so no, thank you.”

“I’d let you out of bed for the date,” Draco says, laughing. “Promise.”

Neville flushes and takes Draco’s other hand. Draco’s heart pounds in his chest. Neville looks down shyly. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

Draco makes an affirmative noise, unable to come up with words.

“Can we consider the last hour a date of sorts, so if I kiss you goodnight it’ll be...proper?”

“God,” Draco blurts. “You are _ridiculous_. Yes. _Kiss me.”_

And finally, for the first time since they left the Three Broomsticks, Neville stops holding Draco’s hand. He lets go, slipping one hand around the back of Draco’s head and the other around his waist. He leans in slowly, hesitantly, _shyly,_ and presses his lips to Draco’s.

In the split second before it happens, Draco thinks: _Moment of truth._ And in the split second after their mouths meet, his entire body lights up like a Christmas tree. Every desperate hope and wish Draco has carried for two years comes instantly true. It wasn’t a fluke or a mistake. None of it.

The kiss is sweet, _so_ deliciously sweet, and Draco realizes he’s trembling as Neville deepens it, moves his lips gently, cradles Draco’s head in his hand. His beard prickles against Draco’s skin, so Draco brings his hands up to touch it, to hold Neville’s face in his hands and kiss back, drawing a sharp breath in through his nose.

When they part they’re plastered together and Draco is on the very tips of his toes. Draco keeps his eyes closed, drawing in breath after shaking breath.

“Wow,” Neville whispers.

Draco opens his eyes and finds Neville gazing back in wonder. “The muggles call that chemistry,” Draco says stupidly.

“Or magic,” Neville says, and Draco has to kiss him just one more time for that, quick and joyous.

“I’m going inside,” he says when he pulls away again. “If I don’t, I’ll have you right here on Hogsmeade’s main street.”

“God,” Neville says with a shudder, and kisses Draco _again_ , and it’s not until Draco is letting his own mouth fall open that he realizes there hasn’t even been _tongue_ yet, and he feels like he’s going to pass out. It’s fleeting, a soft sweep of Neville’s tongue past Draco’s lips, light suction on his lower lip, and then Neville puts a full foot of space between them, taking in a great, deep breath. “I’ve _got_ to get out of here.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, taking a step back, himself. “Good night.”

“Goodnight, Draco,” Neville says, then turns and hurries away.

He does turn once, grinning, walking backwards a few steps. Draco smiles back, fingers over his tingling lips, and waits until Neville turns a corner before stumbling into the building and practically floating up the stairs to his flat.

***

Draco suffers for the entire next day. He inflicts himself on Pansy’s household for lunch just to have something to _do,_ and she absolutely skewers him with her eyes the moment he is expelled from the fireplace.

“Tell me _everything,”_ she demands without preamble. “You don’t _look_ like you’ve been spectacularly shagged.”

“That’s because I haven’t,” Draco snaps. He goes to the blanket where the girls are laid on their bellies with a set of soft toys and plops down to dance a little stuffed skrewt between the two of them.

 _“Pay attention to me,”_ Pansy growls, kicking him in the side on her way past him to sit down on the other side of the blanket.

“What can I say?” Draco drawls. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

“For Longbottom you most certainly _are,_ ” Pansy says, then affects a voice Draco supposes is supposed to be his. _“He’s very tall, and weirdly soft like, like a very soft thing, a giant teddy bear that can suck your brains out through your--”_

“Not in front of the children!” Draco throws his hands up. “First of all, I _never_ said any of that. Secondly, your impression of me is pitiful.”

 _“You’re_ pitiful,” Pansy mutters. “So what happened, then?”

“He walked me home, we kissed goodnight, we’re going out later today.”

Pansy gasps and claps her hands together. “Draco! Yes!”

“I know,” he says, smiling despite himself. “I invited him up, and he declined. Like a bloody gentleman.”

“I am very pleased,” Pansy sighs. “If you start getting laid, maybe I’ll have a moment’s peace around here.”

“Not long ago you were asking me to move in permanently.”

“And you are still welcome, provided you stop being so uptight and sulky all the time. I do believe a regular shag will do the trick, don’t you?”

Just for that, Draco ignores her for the next twenty minutes, and converses only with Clarissa and Lisette.

***

He decides to apparate from the grounds of the Finch-Fletchley home to a point off Diagon Alley. There’s a little wine shop there that carries a very good elf-made wine. Draco likes to keep a couple of bottles around in general, but he especially wants to have some on hand in case Neville does come in after their date.

Draco still reels at the concept of a date that he doesn’t dread. The only real “dates” he’s experienced have taken place in the last year, and all were lackluster at best and disastrous at worst. He’d had less than nothing invested in any of them, and had made the effort with the thought that he should be making some cursory attempt at doing normal things like dating. It hadn’t been an entirely wasted experiment; his therapist had agreed that he shouldn’t keep going out with men he knew he wasn’t going to like much at all, but had also pointed out that, at the very least, he was learning how to spot red flags in other people.

Anjali had been unflappable, always, in their conversations. But Draco knew she found his sexual history disturbing. He had characterized it to her as _mostly perfunctory and almost always emotionless,_ and while she had given him a long, slow blink and not said much other than, “How do you feel about that?” he knew it had been a concerning thing to say.

Draco can be practical. He has always known he might never see Neville Longbottom again. He _is_ capable of forming some sort of emotional connection, finding some level of chemistry with a person who was not Neville Longbottom. He had come to this conclusion after several sessions spent talking about it in Anjali’s office.

Anjali had smiled and said, _“Very_ good, Draco,” and Draco had preened. _Look at me, I’m a well-adjusted wizard!_

Despite that, though, Draco walks on clouds all the way to the shop, ecstatic in a way he can’t stop to analyze, or he’ll talk himself right out of it. Being practical is great and everything, but Draco will seize this rare and absurd good fortune with both hands, thank you _very_ much.

Draco buys the wine and a box of truffles, because there’s no reason not to, and leaves the shop having barely paid attention to the money leaving his pocket or the bag being passed into his hands. Lost in warm and pleasant thoughts, he isn’t paying attention when he steps out of the shop. He isn’t paying attention when the wizard across the street takes notice of him. He isn’t paying attention, so he doesn’t see a wand being aimed in his direction. It’s likely he wouldn’t have caught it even if he hadn’t been preoccupied, but Draco will be convinced otherwise when he thinks of this moment later. Draco isn’t paying attention, so the jinx takes him completely by surprise and the entire world tilts. He doesn’t register the jelly legs until after his face has smashed into the sidewalk. Pain explodes with the crunch of cartilage, and the taste of copper gags him almost immediately.

Draco hasn’t even rolled to his side. His head is still ringing. The air was knocked out of him and he hasn’t convinced his lungs to fill again. The sound of shattering glass is only just making sense to him, when he hears the voice spit, “Death Eater _trash.”_

Draco never sees who said it, though he assumes the owner of the voice is the one who sent the jinx. By the time someone stops to help him up, whoever it was is gone.

***

Draco goes home and casts _Episkey_ at his own face. His broken nose mends, as does his split lip, and he cleans the blood away. It took him too long to reach the nearest floo hub once he got up off the ground, and the delay makes it so the injury is slower to heal. Bruising lingers around his eyes. It’s hard to tell, but he thinks his nose is very slightly crooked. He looks awful. He supposes he’s just lucky he didn’t break teeth.

He wants to scream.

One bottle of the elf-made wine survived his fall. Draco stows it in a cabinet.

He wants to be angry.

Draco closes his eyes and breathes. He’s not angry, he’s...sad. He feels sad, and small, and worthless.

When he opens his eyes, he checks his watch. He has an hour before Neville shows up for their date. At this point, without an owl of his own, Draco doesn’t have time to call the whole thing off. Part of him badly wants to. He looks a fright and he’s not sure how he’ll manage to shake this off in an hour. But part of him desperately wants someone to be angry on his behalf, and he knows Neville would be if Draco were to tell him. Part of him aches to have gentle fingers trace the greenish bruises on his face. Maybe if he pays his cards right, Neville will kiss them.

Draco shakes it off as best he can. He’s pretty good at that sort of thing-- a posh upbringing is good for that. He showers, shaves, dresses, and applies a little salve to the bruises. It only helps a little, but there’s not much he can do beyond casting a glamour, which would over-perfect his entire face and be even more glaringly noticeable, probably.

There’s a knock at his door at six sharp. Draco takes a deep breath.

When he opens the door to his flat, Neville is standing there with a small bunch of flowers in hand, tied round their stems with a bit of green twine. Draco’s heart skips a beat and he forgets all about his bruised face until it registers on Neville’s.

 _“Merlin,”_ Neville says, the hand holding the flowers dropping down to his side. “Are you alright?”

“Oh.” Draco waves a hand, _oh these?_ , and says, “It’s fine, just took a little spill earlier today.”

He doesn’t consciously decide to omit the rest of the story, it just sort of comes out that way, and Draco nearly winces at himself. The truth shivers on the end of his tongue, but Neville is already stepping into the flat with one hand raised as if to touch Draco’s face.

“Are those for me?” Draco asks, tilting his chin toward the flowers.

“Yes,” Neville says, sheepish. “Sorry, here.”

Draco takes them and smiles down at the tiny wild blooms. “You’re sweet,” he says. “Thank you.”

“They’re charmed, so you don’t need to put them in water. Should last about a week that way.”

Draco stands them up in a pitcher from the cabinet under the sink, realizing at that moment that he still doesn’t own a vase. The flowers arrange themselves in a perfect bunch as soon as he lets go of them.

“Lovely,” he sighs. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s a date,” Neville says, stepping further into Draco’s space. “‘Course I did.”

Draco could die. He gets ahold of himself and says, “Well, seeing as it’s a date, I assume we’re to go somewhere?”

“Correct,” Neville replies. “I’m taking you to muggle London, I hope that’s alright.”

Relief comes over him in a wave. Draco won’t have to worry about getting hexed again in muggle London. “That’s fine,” he says.

“Did you ever go to the cinema in America?”

Draco snorts. “No, I wouldn’t have known how to navigate such a thing. Is that what we’re doing?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Draco grins. “I don’t. I’ve heard it’s like television but _enormous_.”

“And dark, and loud, yes,” Neville says with a nod. “Anyway, muggle first dates often involve dinner and a movie. I thought we’d attempt it.”

Draco takes a step closer. “Just one thing before we go?”

“Anything.”

“Well, I know a kiss goodnight is the tradition, but--”

Draco laughs into the kiss that cuts his sentence short and then sighs into it, hands coming up to rest lightly on Neville’s chest. It’s brief and chaste and exactly what Draco needs. Neville pulls away and places a feather light kiss just over one of Draco’s bruises. “Your poor face,” he murmurs. “How on earth did you fall so badly?”

“Wasn’t paying attention,” Draco says truthfully.

“Constant vigilance,” Neville chides, which startles a laugh out of Draco. Neville kisses the other side of Draco’s face. “You’re still absurdly attractive, even black and blue. Are you ready to go?”

Draco nods, not trusting his voice. Neville smiles and offers his arm which Draco takes, even as he rolls his eyes.

***

Draco _loves_ the cinema. It’s crowded and there are bright lights everywhere, and it smells like butter. There are huge posters that don’t move, and fizzy drinks, and the butter smell is _popcorn._ He would be thrilled about this experience from the lobby alone, but then Neville escorts him all the way up a set of steps to the very top row of the theater (there are _eight_ in this building, which doesn’t look all that large from the outside; Draco suspects an expansion charm) and it gets very dark, and then there are little mini-films which Neville explains are “tailors” for other films that will play in the theater soon.

It’s thrilling. Loud. Neville hadn’t been joking about that. There aren’t many people in the theater with them. Neville explains that this movie has been available for a while now, and so it’s not as popular at the moment. He won’t tell Draco what the movie will contain, just that it’s a story played by actors as in a play or on the Wireless.

It turns out to be about muggle teenage girls, which Draco is baffled by for about the first ten minutes, and then it occurs to him that he’s being made fun of. He turns his head to glare at Neville, who just laughs quietly and hands Draco the bucket of popcorn (buttery and salty and chemical and _amazing_ ). Draco sulks until Neville leans over and kisses him on the cheek, at which time Draco turns his head to catch him off guard. They kiss with salty lips and smile into one another’s faces, and then turn back to the (really quite funny) movie grinning like a pair of loons.

Neville guides Draco to a dimly lit restaurant down the street after the movie, and by the time they’ve been served glasses of wine and a basket of bread, Neville is laughing himself sick while Draco quietly berates him.

 _“I am_ not _Regina George,_ you utter dickhead,” he cries. “How _dare_ you?”

Neville gasps and tries to speak but is overcome with giggles, so Draco just pitches a dinner roll at his head and laughs, too, and that is the first time he thinks he might be in love.

***

Neville apparates them back to Draco’s flat, landing them just outside the door. Before Draco has a chance to assess the state of all his limbs and appendages, he’s pressed against said door, being kissed to within an inch of his life.

He touches the beard again, and Neville pulls away with eyebrows raised. “D’you have a thing for facial hair?”

“I do now,” Draco breathes, and yanks him back in. The kiss is hungry and promising, as is the grind of Neville’s hips against his. Draco wants to hitch a leg up around his hips and chase the delicious friction, but it seems like bad form. His neighbors include children and the elderly, after all. “Come inside,” he says when they break apart for air.

“I would,” Neville murmurs, kissing along Draco’s jaw. “But that’s not first date behavior.”

“This could be considered our second date,” Draco suggests, then moans softly when Neville finds the sensitive spot just below his ear. “Come inside.”

“That’s at _least_ third date stuff, Malfoy,” Neville says, kissing back toward his mouth, his words muffled against Draco’s skin. “Maybe even fourth.”

“You can forget that,” Draco says sharply. “I’ll stand for it tonight, but I’m planning the next date and we are _shagging_ after, and that’s final.”

Neville laughs helplessly, his forehead pressed to Draco’s. “Oh, is that so?”

_“Yes.”_

“Alright,” Neville agrees easily. “Fine. How about Friday?”

“Six days from now? Absolutely not. Tuesday.”

“I’m flattered by your enthusiasm.”

Draco shoves him back just enough to glare at him. “It has been _two years.”_

“Sorry,” Neville says, not sounding sorry at all. “I don’t mean to be a tease.”

“Yes, you do,” Draco says sourly, but he can’t help but soften almost immediately. “But I do appreciate what you’re trying to do. I’ll go along with it. One more date.”

“Thank you,” Neville whispers, and kisses him on the tip of his nose before stepping back completely.

Draco is grateful for the door at his back, holding him up.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday,” Neville says, keeping a polite distance. “I look forward to it.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Draco purred with a slow, deliberate smile. “Rest up, Longbottom.”

Neville grins. “Will do, Malfoy.”

Draco huffs a frustrated breath and lets himself into his flat, sparing one last glance at Neville who _winks at him again,_ so he slams the door with a scandalized gasp that earns him one of Neville’s full-bodied belly laughs from the other side of the door.

Draco falls asleep that night with a smile on his face, and forgets to think about being jinxed and called _Death Eater trash_ until the next day, when he is woken by his mother rapping insistently at his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things-  
> 1\. I've never been to London, and don't really know what the theatre in Regent's Park looks like in person. I also don't know what was playing during the summer of 2004 (though I did try to look it up). Roll with me, here  
> 2\. This chapter took forever because my brain sort of fizzled out for a few days. I owe its existence to the amazing friends who have been cheering me on, and all of you. Thank you for your comments and kudos and bookmarks. They give me LIFE.  
> 3\. Thanks again to Bel for the beta! All remaining errors are my own :D
> 
> Finally, I originally set this up to have 8 chapters. It will have more than 8 chapters. Honestly, when I started writing, I thought this would end at chapter 4, but in my head it would only take me 3 chapters to do everything I wanted to do. Ha. Hahaha. Yeah. So!

When Draco answers his door to find his mother standing on the other side, impeccably dressed at seven-thirty in the morning, he almost forgets that he is in fact a grown man.

“Mummy, no,” he whines, even as he steps away from the door to allow her inside.

“Draco,” she says, urgent, grabbing his face with one hand, her long fingernails digging into his cheeks. “You’re injured.”

“Only a little,” he grumbles, pulling away gently so as not to scratch himself. “It’s fine, Mother.”

“I heard from Amity Greengrass that you were seen with blood on your face yesterday,” Narcissa says, drawing up to her full height, which is still three inches shorter than Draco, even in her heels. “You will explain this at once.”

“Mother, it’s the crack of dawn.”

“I owled you twice last night. Both owls returned undelivered.” Narcissa says. “Where were you?”

Draco groans. “I need coffee.”

Narcissa sniffs delicately. “I’ll have a cup of tea.”

“I didn’t offer,” Draco mutters on his way to the kitchen.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Mother.”

Draco sets the coffee maker to brewing with a tired wave of his wand, then makes a proper cup of tea for his mother. When he takes his mug and her teacup (which is in fact a hastily transfigured mug that once had the Harvard coat of arms on it) out to the living room, she has not moved from her position just inside the door and is staring at his sofa with a familiar, frozen, non-expression on her face.

“Mother, come sit,” Draco says, placing her tea on the coffee table he bought in a muggle secondhand store, before sitting down himself.

Narcissa twitches and crosses to the sofa, but pauses in front of it. Draco realizes it’s hard to sit up straight on this particular piece of furniture. He certainly isn’t. He considers his mother’s couture robes and perfect hair, and tries to imagine her attempting to sit daintily on this marshmallow of a sofa, her ankles primly crossed, knees together. He nearly laughs.

“Mummy. _Sit.”_

Narcissa sniffs and lowers herself gingerly onto one overstuffed cushion. “Draco,” she says, somewhat out of sorts as she attempts to perch on the edge and immediately finds this to be impossible. She has to scoot herself back so much to avoid sliding right off the sofa that her feet nearly leave the ground. _“Draco._ This place is... Well. Inappropriate is one word that comes to mind.”

“Inappropriate for whom?” Draco asks, idly stirring his coffee with the teaspoon he left in it, just because he knows the clinking will drive her _batty._

Narcissa sniffs. “You know what I’m going to say, clearly.”

“Yes. Let’s not do this.”

“Tell me what happened to your face.”

Draco sighs and takes a gulp of coffee, too hot but worth the moment it gives him to gird his loins. “I got jinxed and I fell,” he says plainly. “I’m fine.”

 _“Jinxed?”_ His mother gasps. “Why?”

“Why do you _think?”_ Draco bites out. “I believe the words used by the caster were _Death Eater trash.”_

Narcissa finally picks up her tea with a shudder. “Uncivilized,” she whispers. “Completely unacceptable.”

“Mother.”

“You took your _punishment,”_ she spits. “They haven’t the right to say anything more on the matter, let alone--”

“Mother.” Draco is so tired. “It’s never going to be over.”

“I want you to move home, with me.”

“No.”

“Draco, this is not a discussion--”

“I’m twenty-four years old, it is a discussion, and I’m ending it.” Draco drains his coffee. “I have plans today, Mother.”

“I could withdraw your allowance,” Narcissa tries.

“My entire trust becomes available to me next year,” Draco says, carefully keeping his tone neutral. He _needs_ the allowance if he’s going to save money at all this year. “Do what you feel you must.”

Draco stands and takes his mug into the kitchen to refill it.

“There are many things I could do, Draco,” Narcissa calls after him. “Terms I could place on your trust. Now that it’s entirely funded by Black money, it’s my right to set whatever limitations I see fit.”

Draco stands in the doorway of the kitchen and considers his mother. “Such as?”

“I could require that you produce an heir first.”

She clearly thinks this is a gauntlet she can throw. It’s very _Lucius_ of her. Draco shakes his head. “Then the money will sit there forever, Mother, because that is never going to happen.”

“You have a duty.”

“No.”

_“You most certainly do--”_

Words like _duty_ tend to knock Draco off-kilter, and his mother knows it. But when it comes to the question of marriage and heirs, Draco is certain. This, he can take, can handle. This thing, Draco is sure of, at last.

“Mother, I prefer men and you know it. I’m never going to father children. Ever. I don’t believe in forced reproduction as a _duty,_ and I don’t care if I live my life destitute because of it. Do you understand what I’m saying? Take the money away. It won’t make me any less queer, or you any more happy with me.”

“Draco,” Narcissa says, and there is genuine sorrow there, the barest trace of restrained tears. _“Please.”_

“Things have changed, Mummy,” Draco says softly. “Catch up, or don’t. I’m only waiting for you to decide.”

“I’ll leave you to your day,” Narcissa says abruptly, standing from the sofa.

“Alright,” Draco sighs. He walks her to the door.

Narcissa turns before opening the door and cups his cheek in her hand. “Draco, I _love_ you.”

“I know, Mother. I love you, too.” Draco smiles. He does know, and he _does_ love her. She would have died for him a hundred times over. Still would. And he would do the same for her. But he won’t live the wrong life for her.

“We’ll meet for lunch,” Narcissa says, blinking away her inconvenient emotions. “I’ll send a note. And please, Draco, get yourself an owl.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and kisses her cheek.

His mother sighs and goes, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume. Draco shuts the door behind her and breathes in the scent, both comforted by it and deeply annoyed. He stands there for a moment, trying to decide on a next move.

In the end, as much as he hates to feel as though he has been given his orders, he decides he should in fact get dressed and go out and find a damn owl already.

***

Draco remembers every single moment of the weekend he spent holed up in Neville Longbottom’s flat in Salem. He’s fairly certain that he does, anyway. He sometimes thinks he would like to draw the memories out, sit and watch them in a Pensieve, and see what he might have missed. Sometimes, in the two years since, Draco has wished he could erase the memories all together. It has often felt unfair, that he should have to remember all of that, know that it’s possible to feel wanted and seen and understood, that sex can be part of those things, can happen for no reason at all, and still have to live this life where it seemed as if he would never feel like that again.

But in the end, Draco knew that he wouldn’t give up that weekend for anything. Despite himself, he could never stand to forget what it was like for someone to pay attention to what he wanted and then give it to him without conditions, without even so much as a snide comment, and without taking more than what was on offer.

Before that weekend, Draco had considered more than once the possibility of just giving in to his mother and letting her marry him off to some woman. What was the difference? He preferred men, was vaguely terrified of the concept of being with a woman, but being with men hadn’t exactly been _fulfilling._ For his first two years in Boston, Draco had tried it out again, thinking that maybe if he could get off with a few random muggles he could burn away the handful of experiences he’d managed during the war, all of which ranged from lackluster to actively frightening.

It hadn’t worked. Draco had begun to suspect that there was something wrong with him on a basic level. That he was incapable of having good sex. That liking to be roughed up a little meant inviting scorn or even outright violence, and that he could either suck it up and deal with it or decide to live a celibate life. He had thought maybe he liked those things because there was darkness in him that would never wash out. He wondered if he had some sort of complex. It hadn’t even occurred to him that _feeling_ anything could be part of the equation at all.

So, Draco had planned to eventually land on one of a handful of depressing options, all of which seemed to play along a theme of passionless oblivion.

And then he’d gone and polyjuiced himself and caught a ride to Salem, and managed to trade orgasms with the one person he _never_ would have considered in his previous life. Who had then asked him to _stay._

It had ruined everything.

***

_Two Years Ago_

Draco liked the television, but didn’t understand how it worked.

“The people aren’t _inside_ the TV,” Neville said, trying to be helpful.

“Yes, thank you,” Draco snapped. “I _know.”_ He pointed to the little box Neville told him contained the ‘cable’ and said, “But how does the image get to that box and then to the televisor? How does it _work?”_

“I have no idea,” Neville said.

It made Draco laugh for some reason, the way he said that. Baffled. Honest. A bit sheepish. “Well thank you for clearing that up, I suppose,” Draco had said, unable to affect his usual sarcasm in the face of all that sincerity.

Neville tackled him back onto the sofa and took the remote control away from him. “I’m not a muggle,” he said. “I just live with some. How do _you_ not know how anything works? Aren’t you living in a building full of muggles?”

Draco shrugged and winced. “They don’t really talk to me. I don’t...I don’t think they like me very much.”

“With your sparkling personality and warmth?” Neville kissed absently at his collarbone, up the side of his neck. “How could they not?”

Draco wriggled a bit, pretending to try and throw Neville off just so he would press Draco further into the uncomfortable sofa cushions. “I-- oh, do that again-- I think I was bad at dressing the right way at first. So. I was the--oh!--the odd one. And then... I don’t know. I can’t think when you do that.”

Neville stopped sucking at Draco’s pulse point and bit him there gently. “Sorry. So you’re the weird kid? Well, make friends with another weird kid, in that case. Or, aren’t there other wizards?”

“If you think other wizards are interested in being seen with me, you haven’t been paying attention,” Draco grumbled. “Why are we talking about this? Take off your pants again.”

Neville laughed and lifted his head, and they kissed until Draco felt a little breathless and even more urgently interested in getting Neville’s pants off.

“You should let me fuck you again,” Neville said, pushing their hips together with Draco’s spread legs bracketing his own hips. “Like this.”

“On the sofa?”

“If you want,” Neville said. “I meant this, you know, general arrangement.”

“I find the way you communicate very amusing,” Draco told him honestly, threading his fingers through his hair.

“Coincidentally, I feel the same way about the way _you_ ‘communicate’,” Neville laughed. “I like it. You’re interesting.”

“You can fuck me again,” Draco said, ignoring that last statement. “I would be amenable.”

Neville laughed again and got up, pulling Draco with him. _“Amenable,”_ he said. “Bed.”

They practically ran into the bedroom, Draco towed by the hand behind Neville, barking his shin on the coffee table and shouting, “Hey! I’m delicate! Be careful!”

They were already in the bedroom before he finished complaining and Neville snorted before tossing him toward the bed. “You are _not.”_

“I am,” Draco insisted breathlessly, bouncing a little as he landed on the mattress. “I’m refined and very small, and _breakable.”_

“Okay,” Neville said, stripping out of his shirt and underwear. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Draco’s briefs. “I think you want to feel like you are.”

“Take them off,” Draco said, lifting his hips.

“I will,” Neville replied, but didn’t do it. “Is that it? You want to feel all helpless? Why?”

“Who the fuck _knows_ why,” Draco snapped. “I just _like_ it.”

Neville grinned and yanked Draco’s underwear off, tossing it behind him. “Fine. Turn over.”

“What happened to the _general arrangement?”_

“Changed my mind. Turn over and put your hands behind your back.”

For a split second Draco had been sure he would come on the spot. He turned over onto his belly just in case, figuring at least if it happened then and there Neville wouldn’t see the embarrassment on his face. He didn’t come, but it was a near thing, and continued to be a near thing while Neville manhandled him into position, tugging up on his hips until Draco got the message and got his knees under him. With his arms behind his back, the position practically folded him in half, and required that his face stay pressed to the bed. He said something about it out loud, some concern about whether he would be able to breathe that way.

“You will,” Neville said. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up.”

Draco’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth to say something about that, but whatever words he would have managed were subsumed by a moan as two fingers slid roughly into him. Draco pressed his forehead into the bed and tried to catch his breath. He had to grip one wrist with the opposite hand to keep his arms from dropping to his sides, and as Neville’s thick fingers moved relentlessly in and out, Draco dug his own nails into his wrist and whimpered into the mattress.

“You’re a quick study,” Draco said after a moment, needing to fill the silence, needing to hear something other than his own moans and the slick noises of those fingers.

“I pay attention,” Neville said, and then his hand closed over Draco’s wrists. “Need some help?”

“Not particularly.”

“Your arms are starting to shake.”

Neville’s fingers twisted and Draco shouted, then laughed into the blankets. “Oh, god, that’s good.”

“Is it?” Neville kissed a hot line across Draco’s lower back, then bit lightly just at the swell of his arse cheek. “Do you want more?”

_“Yes.”_

And here is what Draco remembers: He remembers strong thighs slotting up behind him. He remembers steadying hands on his hips, and a slow, burning thrust in. He remembers sobbing at the first drag out and push back in, and struggling to breathe with his face pressed into the mattress. He remembers fingers locked around his wrists, then a strong arm slipping under his chest and pulling him up, splaying him across those thighs and holding him in place.

He remembers babbling: “God, yes, so perfect, _please,”_ and gasping at the tight grip around his wrists, the way Neville held him and twisted him up just a little, panting into his ear and against his neck. Draco could hear Neville’s breath catch at the praise.

He remembers Neville holding him tightly, perfectly, and asking, “Is this okay, is it good?”

He remembers the words “You’re such a good boy,” eventually spilling from his own mouth, a stroke of genius amid the rambling praise.

He remembers Neville’s shocked, _“Oh my god,”_ and the way he froze, the way he shook as he came.

Draco remembers being pressed back down to the bed, being turned over, and having his hips held down as Neville swallowed his cock down with a blissed-out moan.

Draco remembers coming almost immediately, remembers leaning up on his elbows and looking down, remembers Neville looking up at him all lust-drunk, eyes gone a little distant and dazed. Draco remembers how they fluttered shut as Neville licked him clean.

“You’re--” Draco gasped. “You’re very-- _hey_ , I’m a little _sensitive_ , stop, oh--”

“Sorry,” Neville murmured into his hip, then kissed it. “You taste good.”

“God,” Draco said. “Has anyone ever told you you’re _very_ generous in bed?”

Neville laughed and crawled up the bed to slide up against Draco’s side, turn his head, kiss him slow and lush.

“I like making you feel good,” Neville said, like it was nothing. Like doing something just to make another person _feel good_ is a thing one does without any sort of ulterior motive. He said it as if it didn’t cost him anything to try something different just for Draco’s gratification.

And Draco remembers that phrase at the most inconvenient times for two years after.

_I like making you feel good._

Who the fuck says something like that, is what Draco wanted to know. No one had ever said anything _close_ to that to Draco, and it had thrown him in the moment and would throw him for _years_ , the echoing memory of it giving him inappropriate erections in the most inconvenient places.

Draco made a series of decisions after that weekend, and then _kept on making decisions_. He chose paths. Made plans. Said _no_ to his mother. Tried talking to the people around him. Failed. Succeeded.

He wouldn’t say that a weekend of marathon sex with Neville Longbottom changed his life. It changed something, though. Draco could admit that, if only to himself.

***

“Only you,” Pansy says on Monday night, sitting in Draco’s living room and watching him juggle two scraggly kittens in his arms. “What happened to getting an owl?”

Draco looks up helplessly from his seat on the floor and shrugs. “An owl might try to eat them. I’ll have to wait until they’re bigger to get one, I suppose.”

_“Draco.”_

“They were all alone in a box on the side of the road!” Draco says. “What was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t know you even liked cats!”

“Well, I’ve never had one, so I didn’t know if I did or not!”

Pansy shakes her head at him. “Ridiculous. I suppose this is just a good deed? Has nothing to do with your mum harping on about the owl issue?”

Draco has nothing to say to that. He gently removes one kitten, the grey tabby, from his shoulder and places her on his lap with her brother, orange and white with one droopy ear. She starts the climb back up his torso immediately and he smiles and lets her.

“This is disgusting,” Pansy says, fond. “But I suppose having a set of twins of your own will stop you absconding with mine.”

“As soon as your girls are old enough to be reasoned with, I’m stealing them,” Draco says without looking up. “Well, and use to toilet on their own.”

“And at what point will _you_ reach the age at which _you_ can be reasoned with?” Pansy drawls. “You’ll have to clean litter trays now, you realize.”

“That’s fine,” Draco sighs, just as a tiny pink nose nudges against his cheek. “It’s worth it.”

“I despair of you,” Pansy says, but she’s smiling. “Alright, come on. We have to find you something decent to wear tomorrow. Maybe I should come over and do your hair beforehand.”

“Shut up,” Draco laughs. “This is not the Yule Ball.”

“True, you took _me_ to that,” Pansy says, ruffling his hair. “Your mum would prefer it if you had continued escorting me to boring functions until we both shriveled and died of resentment. I’m glad you’re doing this, instead.”

“Me, too,” Draco murmurs, tickling the little orange kitten under his chin. “I’ve got to name these two.”

“Draco and Neville,” Pansy says, deadpan.

 _“Get out,”_ Draco snaps, not bothering to look up at her.

Pansy snorts, ladylike as ever. “You’ll think of something. Ask your muggle friend tomorrow.”

***

Draco does ask Anjali at the end of his session on Tuesday morning. She had been absolutely _thrilled_ when, upon walking into her office, Draco announced, “I’ve become a pet owner!”

Anjali had suggested getting an owl or something over a year ago, and Draco had brushed the notion away repeatedly. Today, she said, “I think this is a big step for you. Having a pet is permanent. It’s a commitment. You have to have some faith in your own ability to nurture to make such a big decision.”

“Well,” Draco had said, sheepish, “I sort of just picked them up off the side of the road. I didn’t think it through, much.”

“You were on your way to buy an owl,” Anjali replied, smiling at him in a way that made Draco feel good, like he had done something right. “But instead you saw two creatures in need, and you chose to help them.”

“I didn’t really want an owl,” Draco said. “Birds and winged things sort of...freak me out. A bit.”

Anjali had smiled even wider. “I’m pleased to hear that you chose a pet you actually _want_ , then.”

Now, on his way out the door, Draco pauses and asks her if she knows of any good names.

“You’ll think of something,” Anjali says.

“That’s what Pansy said, too.”

“Pansy believes in you,” Anjali replies with a funny scrunch of her nose. “Something we have in common.”

Draco laughs. “Thank you, Anjali.”

“Of course,” she says. “Now, shoo. I have a client in fifteen minutes and you have a work day and a date to get to. I’ll see you in two weeks to hear about how well it goes, yes?”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, and raps his knuckles on the door jamb on his way out. “Have a good day.”

Draco walks in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, not far from the little office building where Anjali practices, and thinks about the things they had covered that day. Draco likes to break it all down into a list in his head. Early on, he had been close to quitting his sessions with Anjali because he didn’t see what could possibly be helpful about sitting in a room for an hour talking about nothing.

He had said as much to her, and Anjali had raised one unimpressed eyebrow at him and said: “Well, try talking about _something.”_

At the end of that hour, she had made a list for him, of all the conclusions he had come to, and all the plans he had referenced but rejected out of hand. Things like: _I don’t want to see my father anymore but I have to; I don’t want to start this job; I want to make potions again, but no one will take me as an apprentice; I can’t waste the education I just finished; I could save money and try for independent study later, but it would take too long_.

“Next time,” Anjali had said, “we’ll work on challenging the ‘ifs, ands, and buts’. Then, we can make a new list of actionable items. Plans.”

Draco is so grateful for Anjali and her quiet office, her easy manner, and the matter-of-fact way she explains everything from the scarves she wears, to muggle plumbing, to Draco’s neuroses, sometimes with visual aids. He likes that she smiles at him, and wrinkles her nose when she clearly thinks he’s being obtuse.

He’s glad he had an appointment with her today. Today’s list in his head doesn’t contain a single ‘but,’ which is something that has been happening more often lately. Draco arrives at the Leaky and heads straight for the entry to Diagon Alley. Anjali has been big on reminding him that most likely, he won’t be noticed or recognized in crowd, and if he is, it won’t necessarily be a bad thing.  

“And above all,” Anjali had said just this morning, “the main concern is your personal safety. Have you felt unsafe around other wizards recently?”

Draco had lied to her and omitted the incident with the jinx, which he feels bad about, but it was just the one incident. Sure, he’s had things said to him, muttered at him. But he can handle that. He doesn’t need to worry Anjali or get over-dramatic just because one arsehole thought they’d play a stupid prank.

No one seems to notice him on his way through the Leaky Cauldron, and Draco makes it to the floo station not far from the pub without incident. His shoulders relax the moment he steps out of the fireplace in the back of the Gallipot, and he feels almost sick with relief that he got to work without incident. Draco pauses there on the hearth and catches his breath, telling himself it had just been a rough floo trip. He closes his eyes and swallows his nausea.

After a moment, Golda hollers from the front of the shop, “That you, boy?”

Draco shakes himself and calls back in the affirmative, then heads to his desk to get through the morning owl post.

***

He leaves work and dashes home to change and check on the kittens. He lets them out of the little warded section of the kitchen he has set aside for them. They dart around, excited to have all the room in the world for a while. Draco sets down some food for them and watches them eat for longer than he would ever admit, probably with a dopey look on his face.

“You two eat up,” he says. “Get big and strong. I’m going to wash up.”

The kittens don’t reply, but it feels good to talk to them.

Draco forces himself not to linger over his closet like some sort of fourth-year. He grabs his favorite muggle shirt, a short-sleeved grey button-up, and a pair of jeans. His dragonhide boots are, he has been reliably informed by the young woman who works reception at Anjali’s building, _well sexy_ with this outfit, and Draco sets them out on his bed next to the clothes with a grin.

He’s not nervous, exactly. Draco has felt all day like he used to feel the day before Christmas when he was a child; it’s as if the clocks ran slower all day, every little mundane task seeming to take four times as long as it normally would. In hindsight, adding two kittens to his life the day before had been an unintentional stroke of genius. Sunday had gone by in a flash, what with finding them, going shopping for supplies, and settling them in. His work day on Monday had felt long, but his mind had been occupied with whether the cats liked their corner of the kitchen, and wondering if he could make it to the bookstore before it closed to purchase a book on pet-related charms and potions. Then Pansy had come to see his new babies and he had fallen asleep easily, one kitten lying curled by his neck and the other tucked under his arm.

Today, though, had been harder. Between the desire to skip therapy to stay home and play with his cats, which narrowly lost out to Draco’s need to tell Anjali about all the frankly unbelievable things that had happened to him in the last few weeks, and his fervent wish that he could use a Time Turner to jump ahead to his date with Neville, the day had felt torturously long. It hadn’t helped that in the middle of filling in at the front of the shop while Golda took her son to the back greenhouse to go over a list of repairs, Draco had managed to get to thinking about Neville, and the words _I like making you feel good_ had echoed around his brain just as a customer walked in.

Of course, now he only has a very short window of time in which to make himself presentable before heading out to meet Neville at his place, and Draco is thinking about those words _again._ He takes his time in the shower, but is quick about dressing and uses a spell to dry and style his hair which he doesn’t prefer, but if he’s going to give each cat a fair share of scratches and cuddles, he has to budget his time wisely.

Luckily, Draco does know the charm for removing pet hair. He casts it at the door on his way out, then backpedals into the apartment again to peer into the kitchen just to make _very_ sure that the wards around the kittens’ corner are set. He’s satisfied to note that the orange cat is very definitely bumping his head against the edge of the wards, his little nose sniffing around its boundaries, but they hold firm and keep the cats inside a little bubble of safety. Draco nods to himself and hurries out.

***

“You found the place,” Neville says when he meets Draco just outside the charming brick building sandwiched between a bakery and an antiques dealer.

“Your owl was very specific,” Draco says, grinning. “I didn’t really _need_ turn-by-turn directions to a building a total of five blocks from my own flat, but I appreciate your attention to detail. Hi.”

Neville looks down at him as Draco draws to a stop. “Hi.”

There is a shivering, anticipatory pause before Draco rises up just slightly on his toes just as Neville bends down, and their lips meet sweetly and briefly. Draco pulls away smiling and rocks back on his heels, clearing his throat. “We should get going; we only have a few minutes to get there.”

“Where is there?” Neville asks, slipping his hand into Draco’s elbow so they can side-along.

“Seeing as how I pointedly did not answer that question when you posed it in your note this morning, I don’t see why you think I’m going to tell you now. Are you ready?”

Neville chuckles. “Yes, I’m ready. I trust you.”

Draco is already halfway through the wand motions to apparate them away. The last bit of that registers in his mind just as he finishes, and in the split second before they pop out of existence in that exact spot he knows he must look like a startled fish, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, eyes gone wide.

He lands slightly off-balance, but luckily exactly where he intended, his hand gripping Neville’s sleeve so hard it hurts his fingers. “God,” he gasps. “You can’t just--”

“Can’t just what?” Neville steadies Draco with gentle hands at his shoulders.

Draco is momentarily distracted by the sudden need to make sure neither of them were splinched. He hasn’t had such a rough apparition in years. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I am,” Neville says with his endearing crooked smile. His hands, still holding Draco by the shoulders, rub up and down. “Are you?”

“You can’t just say things like that to me when I’m about to side-along you across an entire country,” Draco admonishes, knowing he’s probably flushed and pinched in the face. “I could have splinched you.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Neville insists, a laugh in his voice. “What are you on about?”

“No one trusts me,” Draco blurts.

“Oh,” Neville’s hands still, then squeeze Draco’s arms gently. _“Oh._ Draco.”

Draco looks away, a little bit destroyed by the softness of Neville’s voice when he says his name. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Neville echoes, then kisses him sweetly on the cheek. “I do trust you,” he murmurs. “So show me where we’re going.”

“Okay,” Draco says, but he can’t quite look Neville in the eyes yet, so he takes his hand and tugs him along, out from behind the little line of shrubbery he chose as their landing spot and to a path a short way away. “Just, follow my lead, okay?”

“Going to tell me what you have planned?”

“You’ll see. Do you know this place?” Draco indicates the park around them with one hand. “Regent’s Park?”

“Muggle London,” Neville says. “That’s...the extent of my knowledge, unfortunately.”

“It was the extent of mine, too, before I started coming around the area for appointments with Anjali. She told me about the thing I’m taking you to. She said it was _magical,_ which I thought was a bit much until I saw for myself. It’s not _magic_ but it’s something. It’s special. It’s muggle magic.”

Neville squeezes Draco’s hand. “That’s lovely.”

Finally, Draco brings himself to look at him. “It is. You’ll see.”

Neville’s smile is so _soft._ Draco could _die._

They approach the open air theater at an angle, from the back. “There it is,” Draco says as they round the corner and the trees give way. Neville’s footfalls pause beside Draco and he draws to a halt.

“Oh, wow,” Neville says. “Is it...Are we seeing a play?”

Draco beams up at him. “We are.”

“A muggle play,” Neville says, full of wonder, as Draco tugs him gently along. “You’ve been to one?”

“I’ve been to several,” Draco corrects. “I used to schedule Anjali for late afternoon just so I could catch a Tuesday evening show here and there. Shakespeare is my favorite, _very_ interesting, he might have been a wizard, you know.”

Draco fishes their tickets out of his wallet and hands one to Neville, who takes it and taps it against his fingers as they queue up at the end of a line of people heading in to the theater.

“I’ve never seen a muggle play,” Neville says, voice pitched low so only Draco can hear. “Is it much different from a wizard one?”

“Not really,” Draco murmurs back. “Just different subject matter. No real magic. But I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream once and the fake magic was _delightful.”_

Neville just smiles at him in a manner that makes Draco feel a little unsteady, as if he’s doing something right but isn’t sure exactly what. The line moves quickly, and they walk along, elbows brushing. After a pause during which Draco can feel in the tension in Neville’s body next to his, Neville takes his hand again. Draco bites down on a smile and has to look away to get his face under control.

“This is great,” Neville says quietly. “I can’t wait, thank you for bringing me here.”

Draco wants to lean in and kiss him but it feels strange to do such a thing in the middle of a crowd of muggles in the fading daylight, so he just squeezes his hand and says, “You’re very welcome.”

***

The play is perfect. Draco went on a bit of a kick last summer after discovering the open air theatre, and he saw every show that ran there plus some others at different muggle establishments after he realized it was an option to do so. He wouldn’t call himself an expert, maybe an _enthusiast_ , when it comes to muggle theater.

When he’d heard that _The Importance of Being Earnest_ would be running in the park for the month of July, he hadn’t thought too much about it.  As soon as it had occurred to him that he would need to plan this date, however, Draco had known this would be the perfect thing for it. His mother’s words from the other day have echoed around his mind for two days, and Draco gets a sick sense of satisfaction, sitting down for a muggle play by a well known muggle homosexual, beside a man he plans to shag absolutely blind, later.

That’s just a side perk, though. Draco thought Neville would find the play funny. Draco has seen it once before, at a little community theater last year, and read it twice after that, when Anjali told him about the muggle public library (and how it works). Draco had burned through every title by Wilde, Oscar in a month and a half. _Earnest_ is Draco’s favorite. Maybe because it was the first, but maybe because it reminds him of the world he grew up in, before things got so dark and terrifying all of the time. It’s the world Neville was raised in, too, though Draco knows the Longbottoms are a different brand of stuffy and traditional. He’s wondered about just what it’s like to be from an old, wealthy, pureblood family that _doesn’t_ obsess over the old ways, that _isn’t_ concerned with maintaining purity. He’s wondered frequently what it must have been like for Neville. Draco intends to find out, now that he has the opportunity, and the time, and the wherewithal.

He finds himself watching the side of Neville’s face more than he watches the stage. Their seats aren’t great, Draco having bought the tickets last-minute on his way to his appointment this morning, so they’re very far up. Still, there really isn’t a bad seat in the theatre; Draco has checked. Neville doesn’t seem to mind that these aren’t front-row seats. He sits with his chin in his hand, leaning forward with rapt attention, his face softly illuminated by the lights below now that the sun has mostly set. He’s very handsome, Draco thinks idly, eyes raking over every last detail of his face and analyzing it with brutal honesty, the way he would have when he was younger and harsher and very concerned with such things.

Neville does look similar to the child he was when Draco knew him the first time around. His face is still round, even though it’s more defined now. He still looks vaguely surprised much of the time, as if being addressed by others is something unexpected that makes him just a bit nervous. He did grow into his teeth, though Draco can’t see them right now. Draco spends long minutes thinking on the beard, which Neville keeps cut close to his face and neatly maintained. It’s...rugged, but clean. Very adult, Draco thinks. Neville looks just a bit older than he is, with facial hair.

Draco spends most of Act Two contemplating that, the fact that they’re sitting here, twenty-four years old and what feels like a million miles away from their past, the likelihood that this little spark of a thing between them will make it, the likelihood that it will sputter and die before Draco can take the time to enjoy it, whether he will ever tell his mother that he goes to muggle plays with his handsome...and then Act Three is occupied with thoughts of whether Draco could call Neville his boyfriend, at some point.

The play ends and Draco just barely manages to applaud with everyone else; he really hadn’t been paying attention.

They sit and let people flow out of their seats around them, and Neville turns to Draco, grinning, and says, “That was _great.”_

“I’m glad you thought so,” Draco says. “I hoped you would like it.”

“It’s funny that this play is so old in the muggle world, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just that... Wizards are still _like_ this, aren’t they?”

Draco feels warm from his head to his toes. _“Yes,”_ he breathes. “Exactly.”

Neville, having no idea that he just said something that speaks directly to the soul Draco has been patching up inside himself for the better part of two years, continues. “That Lady Bracknell,” he chuckles. “She reminds me of my great grandmother, a bit.”

“Oh? Not your gran?”

Neville laughs outright. “Oh no, Gran was fairly liberal, actually. No, but her mother was a Prewett, and _very_ old-fashioned. She died before I went to Hogwarts, but I remember her very, very clearly.” He shudders dramatically. “She was _very_ pureblood.”

“Not like my family, I hope,” Draco says, then regrets it immediately. He winces.

Neville just shakes his head, smile softening. “Hey,” he says, slipping his arm around Draco’s waist. “You know what’s funny?”

“No, what?”

“My great grandmother on my mother’s side was a Black.”

Draco snorts. “Well,” he says. “I suppose if anything, we can please your dead ancestors _and_ mine by upholding the grand pureblood tradition of vaguely alarming levels of incest.”

Neville kisses him on his cheek, which blazes with embarrassment--though Draco doesn’t know why the truth should be so embarrassing--and says, “I suppose there’s that.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Draco says, standing and tugging Neville with him; most of the crowd is cleared out of the theater now. “I have plans to feed you delicious, cheap muggle food before you take me back to your place.”

Neville’s eyes light up. “Still have a vision, then?”

“Longbottom,” Draco drawls, “I have several.”

***

Draco takes Neville for fish and chips and a pint, and laughs at the look of fascination on his face as he watches Draco drown everything in vinegar.

“I’m still posh,” Draco says, sly. “Don’t think this means anything.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Neville assures him. “Just, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s not!” Draco squawks. “Try it.”

Neville’s eyes widen as a vinegary chip is deposited in his open mouth. He wrinkles his nose as he chews. Draco laughs at him some more.

It’s all very adorable, Draco thinks. Normal. It’s a very _normal_ date, with no crushingly deep, personal conversation, just the nice, light kind that Draco had never really been sure he was capable of. Neville tells him all about his visit to Hogwarts to meet with McGonagall to finalize the arrangements for his apprenticeship, and Draco is pleased to note that talking about Hogwarts isn’t as hard as it used to be.

“You’re living in Hogsmeade, though? During the apprenticeship?”

“Mmhmm,” Neville nods and wipes his greasy fingers with his napkin. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ll move up to the castle once I take up the post officially. It’s not a requirement unless you’re head of house. Don’t get me wrong, I love Hogwarts. But I’m not ready to have my former teachers around at breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.”

“I’d think it would make having any sort of personal life practically impossible” Draco says casually.

Neville snorts. “Can you imagine? God, I guess it never occurred to me that our teachers might want...er. Well, let’s say it plainly--a _shag_ every once in a while.”

“Ugh,” Draco wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to imagine that at all.”

“They’re people with feelings, you know. Inner lives. Desires.” Neville breaks on the last word, giggling into his hands before scrubbing them over his face. “I can’t, I can’t, it’s too weird.”

“Soon, you realize, you will be the sexless professor?”

“Oh, that’s rich!” Neville sits back, arms crossed. “The other day you were poking fun at me and telling me I’ll have a gaggle of teenagers hanging on my every word and move, and now this reversal?”

“You won’t be young and exciting forever, you know.”

“This is true,” Neville says with a shrug. “I think I’ve got a little life left in me, though. I’ll be the second-youngest Hogwarts professor in history, you know.”

“I know,” Draco says, and waits for the twinge of shame and regret that usually accompanies any thought of Severus Snape. It doesn’t come, which worries Draco for a moment, but then on a whim, he says, “You are _certainly_ more attractive than poor Snape. May he rest in peace.”

“Mmm,” Neville bites his lip and considers Draco from across the table, the detritus of their dinner between them. “Do you think he was a good man, at heart?”

Draco blinks. “Well. No.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Draco nods, surprised at his own answer, at the question. “He was...very complicated. I think he... I think he _wanted_ to be a good man.”

“That counts for a lot,” Neville says pointedly.

Draco rolls his eyes and throws a napkin at him. “Let’s not examine my psyche on this date,” he says. “It’s not sexy.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” Draco gathers up their trays. “Come on, let’s get out of here before one of us makes some sort of embarrassing and deeply personal confession. _Again.”_

Neville shakes his head at him, but helps dispose of their empty cartons and cups and dirty napkins.

They exit the chip shop into a slightly drizzly night. It’s late, but this area is busy, still. Draco starts casting about for a route to a sensible spot from which to apparate, pausing under the shop’s awning. He thinks there’s a convenient alley nearby, to the left and down a block or so.

“We can--”

Neville cuts him off with a kiss, salty like at the movie theater just a few days ago, but lit up by fluorescent and neon shop lights, in full view of any old muggle who might be passing by. Draco rises into the kiss, hands knotting immediately in the fabric of Neville’s shirt. It’s a little dirty, this kiss, with a promising amount of tongue and ending with a bite to Draco’s lower lip.

“That was nice,” Draco says, stupidly, after they part.

A passing group of teenage girls cackles and one shouts, “Sure was, mate!” which sets off her companions, who hoot and whistle, a couple of them walking backwards and applauding showily.

Neville laughs. He laughs a lot, Draco has noticed.

“Come on,” Draco says. “Before you get us arrested by muggle police for public indecency.”

“It was just a kiss,” Neville replies, allowing himself to be tugged along toward the alley Draco thinks he remembers.

“No, it wasn’t,” Draco says, knowing he’s blushing like a fool yet again.

Neville slips his arm around Draco’s waist, leans down close to his ear, and says, “Nah, it wasn’t.”

Draco yanks him into the darkened alcove of some sort of hardware store or locksmith or something, closed for the night, leans up and kisses him one more time before gripping his arm tightly. “Ready?”

“For wha--”

Draco apparates.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meansgirlwrites on twitter! Come see me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to Bel for the beta <33
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this chapter, friends! Avengers Endgame has taken up LOTS of real estate in my brain and it made writing and editing REALLY hard to do. I seem to be on an MCU reading tear. If you want to talk about that, or anything else, come hang with me on twitter @meansgirlwrites

“We could have been seen,” Neville is saying, laughing, before they even really land on their feet just outside his building in Hogsmeade.

“We weren’t,” Draco says with confidence. “Muggles never notice anything.”

Neville opens his mouth to say something to that, but Draco quickly cuts off whatever it is with his own lips. Neville obliges him, pulling him in close and kissing him as if they’d never stopped on the streets of muggle London, as if this is just a seamless continuation of that. Draco sighs into it, but Neville pulls away after a moment.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to your place? Mine is a bit cramped.”

Draco scoffs. “You’ve seen my flat, it’s not exactly a palace. I want to see where you’re keeping yourself. Besides, at mine the kittens would yowl at us the entire time.”

“Wait,” Neville says, pausing mid-step. “Kittens?”

“I had a strange Sunday,” Draco is all says by way of explanation.

Neville laughs and resumes, leading Draco into his building. “I should think so, if you ended up with kittens, plural, in your flat.”

“There are two of them,” Draco says as he follows Neville up two steep flights of stairs. He feels a bit embarrassed, so he rambles a bit as they go.  “I haven’t thought up names just yet. But they were sort of all alone on the side of the road and I couldn’t leave them there. Then they turned out to be quite, well, cute, so--”

“You are so...” Neville shakes his head. “That’s very sweet.”

“You take that back,” Draco says, feigning an absent tone even as his entire body seems to warm in response. “Is this your door?”

“It is.” Neville nods and uses his wand to key into the wards.

Draco is taken aback. The place isn’t particularly small, but the wall-to-wall hanging baskets and planters and even a _trellis_ along one wall, all overflowing with vines and leaves and blooms, certainly make it seem tiny.

“Oh!”

“Told you it was cramped,” Neville says, shutting the door behind him.

Draco stands in the center of what must be a living and dining area, but which contains one sofa, a chair, a low coffee table, a muggle television, and at least four dozen plants. Some reside in planters placed on the floor or on tables, while others float in levitated baskets, or hang upside-down from a series of spelled tubes of water along the ceiling.

“This isn’t a flat, this is a _nursery.”_

“Ah, yeah.” Neville stands at the door, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I know. Sorry. We really can go back to yours.”

Draco shakes his head. “No! I’m not complaining, I just. This is amazing, you know.”

“Oh,” Neville says. “You think so?”

He’s still standing there at the door, so Draco crosses back to him and takes his hand. “Yes, of course. I spotted six fussy and very rare potions ingredients just glancing around. Besides, it’s like being in a forest. Or a jungle. It’s outstanding.”

“Thank you,” Neville says softly. “I’ve been called, you now, _obsessed_ which I suppose is true, but it’s never really said in a nice way, so.”

“You’re a Master of Herbology,” Draco says, confused. “What prick made fun of _that?”_

Neville smiles down at him. “It really doesn’t matter. Do you know, sometimes _I_ forget that I have that title now?”

“Well, you’re forgetful,” Draco says flippantly, leaning up for a brief kiss. “Also, _very_ young for it. You’ll have to tell me how you managed it. Later. Kiss me?”

Neville does, with enthusiasm, and Draco finds it almost funny, the way they sort of jump in and out of this thing, this frighteningly potent physical thing that apparently has lingered after all this time. Draco would be surprised by it, if he hadn’t been so convinced it would be this way if they ever met again. What he is surprised by is the fact that they _did_ meet again. That he’s that lucky.

Draco opens his mouth for Neville, allows himself to be bent backward a little, Neville’s big hands spanning his back. Draco hangs on with his arms wrapped tight around Neville’s neck. The kiss is hot and deep, toe-curling. At this rate, they’ll end up on the floor in front of the door to the flat.

“Sofa?” Draco manages between one kiss and the next. “Bed? Is your-- is your bedroom a jungle, as well?”

Neville makes a muffled sound that Draco thinks is a _no_ , and moves them toward the little hallway to the left. His fingers work at the buttons on Draco’s shirt, and Draco breaks the kiss to shrug out of it, letting it fall to the floor. He takes Nevilles hand and tugs. “Which door?”

“Second on the left.”

Draco adores the roughness of Neville’s voice, and he’s delighted by the burn he can already feel around his own mouth from the scratch of that truly excellent beard. He pulls Neville down the hall, moving quickly to avoid grabbing hands that want to press him up against the walls.

Draco doesn’t register much about the bedroom. The second he opens the door, Neville moves quickly to grab him around the waist, turn him around, and kiss him senseless again, his hands going for Draco’s belt. He gets it undone and out of the loops, dropping it to the floor, but he stops there, backing away to strip his own shirt off over his head.

“Oh,” Draco says, reaching out to trail his fingers over Neville’s broad chest, the little tendril of a tattoo there. “That’s new.”

“Yeah,” Neville says, biting his lower lip in a way that makes Draco want to do it for him. “Uhm. It’s. It goes around to my back.”

The tiny bit of tattoo on Neville’s left pectoral is partially obscured by a dusting of chest hair. It’s clearly a vine, and Draco traces it with his finger, following the green line to where it disappears under Neville’s arm, dipping down to just above his ribcage.

“Turn around?”

Neville looks extremely bashful about it, but he does turn, and Draco blinks once in surprise at the frankly enormous tattoo that spans all of Neville’s back and part of his left side, a riot of vines and stems and petals and roots. There are shapes in the roots and cradled in branches and limbs, but in the dim light of the room, Draco can’t make them out.

“This is a muggle tattoo,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch it gingerly. “It’s very beautiful.”

“I got it at the end of my time at Salem,” Neville tells him, turning his head to look over his shoulder. “You like it?”

“I want to see it in the light,” Draco says. “Later. But yes. I like it. Of course I do, it suits you.”

Draco lets his fingers draw lines down Neville’s embellished skin, sweeping both hands out, just his fingertips scratching as lightly as he can, before resting his hands on Neville’s hips, the soft spots just over the waistband of his trousers.

Neville squirms in place a bit. “I...put some of the chubbiness from before...back where it used to be. I--” he clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m self-conscious. About it. And the tattoo.”

Draco steps in close and presses his forehead to Neville’s back, lets his hands slide around to splay over Neville’s ribs and belly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “You’re devastating. The tattoo is _very sexy.”_

Neville places his own hands over Draco’s and laughs softly. “Thank you.”

“I--” Draco cuts himself off, wraps his arms tighter around Neville and squeezes his own eyes shut. He tells himself it would be insane to say the words _I missed you,_ even if they are true. “Turn around.”

Neville turns in Draco’s arms, already leaning down for the kiss, sweet and gentle, his hands cupping Draco’s head ever-so delicately. Draco walks backward and tugs him by the waist of his trousers until the backs of his own knees hit the bed. Draco sits down and looks up at Neville, who still has one hand pressed to Draco’s cheek.

Draco makes quick work of Neville’s fly and lets the trousers drop. “Step out,” he says, smirking. “Don’t want you getting all tangled up.”

“You _would_ remember the embarrassing bit,” Neville says as he does it.

Draco says, “I remember all the bits,” before he can stop himself.

He covers by tugging Neville in to stand between his knees, and leaning forward to press kisses along Neville’s middle, which is not as soft as Neville probably thinks it is. Draco lets his tongue swirl playfully around and then into Neville’s belly button, chuckling against his soft skin when he jumps, gasps, and tries to moan all at the same time. Draco lets the fingers of one hand slide up under the leg of the muggle-branded boxer briefs covering Neville’s thighs, and he rucks them up, bunching the fabric, until his nails can trace the crease where leg meets backside. Draco tilts his head back, looking up to meet Neville’s eyes as he presses gently with his other hand against the hard line of Neville’s cock through his pants.

 _I missed you,_ Draco thinks again, and just as he does, Neville makes a soft sound in his throat and touches Draco’s hair, then presses a thumb to his lower lip. Draco lets his eyes fall shut and focuses on breathing properly for a moment. When he thinks he has himself under control, he tugs Neville’s pants down and stands, quickly reversing their positions, nudging Neville to sit down on the bed before dropping to his knees before him.

“You--” Neville’s hips twitch involuntarily when Draco runs his nails a little roughly through the hair that sprinkles over his thighs. “I mean-- You don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Draco says, shaky. “Don’t be ridiculous, I _really_ want to. I don’t do _anything_ I don’t want to do.” _Not anymore,_ he thinks. “Besides, I told you. I have a vision.”

“Several, I think you said,” Neville says faintly, as Draco dispenses with all coyness and kisses a hot line up the inside of Neville’s left thigh.

“Several,” Draco echoes, and brushes his lips teasingly over Neville’s balls. “So many visions. Plans. Things.”

“You still talk a lot,” Neville gasps. “I’m glad.”

“Only when my mouth isn’t otherwise occupied,” Draco says, and licks a long, slow stripe up the underside of Neville’s cock.

 _“Merlin,_ help me,” Neville blurts.

Draco pauses to laugh at him, but even to his own ears it sounds painfully fond. Their eyes meet and Draco thinks, _God, I really missed you,_ and then he wraps his lips around the head of Neville’s cock and sucks him down.

“God, so good,” Neville murmurs. His hand threads through Draco’s hair and Draco tries to nod, which is basically impossible in this position and probably wouldn’t get his point across, so he reaches up with his own hand and presses down on Neville’s pointedly. “What? You’re sure?”

“Mmhmm,” Draco says, taking as much of Neville’s cock as he can and holding there, moaning around it and leaning into the grip of Neville’s fingers.

It feels almost greedy, asking for this. He isn’t really sure if Neville likes this sort of thing. He knows Neville’s _willing,_ but he doesn’t know if it’s...as enjoyable for him as Draco thinks it will be for himself. But he wants it, _god,_ so much. He’s daydreamed about this. Neville’s hand tightens just a little in Draco’s hair, and Draco makes a sound of approval, lets his eyes flutter closed. He waits.

Neville gets the idea, and guides him with that gentle hand, just tight enough to show Draco where he wants him and how fast, not enough to hurt. Draco had thought he would want it to hurt; but he doesn’t. This is perfect, this is enough. He moans around Neville’s cock and does his best to suck, to use his tongue. It gets sloppy quickly, it’s too hard to predict another person’s movements and prepare to breathe at the right time, to maintain any sort of suction or finesse. Draco loves it. Neville makes delicious, soft sounds of pleasure and murmurs nonsense and sweetness.

“You’re so lovely,” he gasps, guiding Draco back down and then up again. “Lovely. God, do that again with your tongue.”

Draco curls his tongue and works the tip around the crown of Neville’s cock, then swirls it over the head, tasting precome and sighing, content. Neville makes a strangled sound and pulls him up and off.

“Is this good?” Neville asks.

“So good,” Draco says, breathless. “I can keep going. You can move--push up, fuck my mouth. I like it. I knew I would like it.”

“You--” Neville shudders. “Have you not done this before?”

“Well you know I’ve given blowjobs,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. He presses an idle kiss just below the head of Neville’s cock, opens his mouth, sucks, places wet kisses all down the shaft. “But letting someone control it like that? I haven’t done it quite this way. I wanted to, though. I thought about it. Often.”

Neville closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. “Wow. Right. Good.”

Draco can’t help but laugh at him again. “Come on, Longbottom. Pull my hair a little more.”

“No problem,” Neville murmurs, and uses the hand tangled in Draco’s hair to pull him up, hunching over to meet his mouth in a kiss. His grip tightens just a little as he more or less fucks Draco’s mouth with his tongue, and Draco whimpers, deeply pleased by this turn of events.

When Neville lets him go so they can both breathe, Draco says, “You’re a really fantastic kisser.”

“Thanks,” Neville says. “Thank you.”

Draco enjoys being handled a bit roughly as Neville hauls him up onto the bed, shoving him onto his back and going for the button of Draco’s jeans.

“I never got to blow you again,” Neville says, shucking them off Draco’s legs and tossing them away. “Did you realize that? You wouldn’t let me, after the first night. I really wanted to.”

“Should’ve said,” Daco says. His pants go the way of his jeans in short order and he lets his thighs fall to the side, knowing he looks messy and flushed, his cock impossibly hard against his stomach. He reaches down and touches himself lightly. “I would have let you do anything,” he says. “I’ll let you do anything _now.”_

“That’s terrifying,” Neville says, absent and honest, and then he takes Draco’s cock in his mouth and Draco could _die._

Draco remembers him being good at this but _oh,_ of course the memories pale in comparison. Neville is all finesse and perfect, toe-curling precision. His calloused hands are rough on Draco’s hips, squeezing, pinning him down. Draco loves that feeling, loves struggling to move but being unable to do it. Neville clearly remembers that as well, because he’s not shy about using his big hands just a little roughly to keep Draco still. Draco pets his hair and tries to stay up on his elbows, watching that full mouth stretching around his cock.

“God,” Draco moans after a moment, no longer able to hold himself up on shaking arms. He falls back and gives himself over to the tight, wet, heat and delicious points of pain where Neville’s fingers dig into his hips.

Neville starts teasing him then, slackening his jaw, his tongue lazily circling, everything slowing down to a liquid motion.

“Bastard,” Draco huffs, amused.

Neville pulls away. “Do you want this to be over before it really starts?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco drawls. “I wasn’t even close.”

“Hmmm,” Neville says, like he’s considering his next move, than he sucks a fast mark into Draco’s thigh--or, at least, Draco assumes it will mark the skin tere. It’s hard and a little bitey, _fantastic,_ and then Neville drags his mouth up, his beard scratching a little at the sensitive skin. Draco shivers and spreads his legs wider. Neville slides his hands up and under Draco’s knees, encouraging him to bend them, to open his thighs even further.

Draco hears a murmured spell and leans up to demand to be told what that was, and then the _tingling_ starts. _“Oh, fuck,”_ he gasps, falling right back down against the soft blanket beneath him. His skin feels _alive_ , a hot-cold feeling spreading all over, centered over his hole and spiraling out from between his legs, up his torso, down his legs.

“That’s a new trick,” he tries to say, but all he can really do is moan the words, because Neville’s hands are on him, lifting his hips as he silently summons a pillow to shove underneath. Every touch and brush of fabric, every movement is _fantastic._

“It’s really just a cleaning spell,” Neville tells him. “But a fun one.”

“A cl-- _oh my god yes,_ ” Draco nearly arches completely away from Neville’s mouth, which is now wet and open over Draco’s hole, his tongue tracing teasingly around. “Fuck.”

“You did this for me,” Neville says, his thumbs spreading Draco even further, tongue swiping again.

Draco’s hips twitch, and he can feel precome smearing over his belly where the head of his cock rests. “I know,” he gasps. “It was _fantastic._ You were so nervous about it. You blushed.”

Neville just hums against Draco’s hole, which feels very good, then _really_ gets into things, mouth hot and tongue invasive and teasing in turns. Draco could touch himself, could give his cock just one good stroke and would likely come all over himself. He knots his hands in the blankets and tries to breathe. It’s so _intimate._ It hadn’t been, the first and only time Draco’d had it done to him, in a cold, empty spare bedroom at the Manor during the war. It had been...fine. He hadn’t thought it anything to write a poem about. But he _had_ thought to himself: _I want to do that to someone._ So, the ever-amenable Neville Longbottom had seemed a good candidate on whom to try it. And Draco had _loved_ doing it, had revelled in the dichotomy of having Neville at his mercy, and of being on his knees, completely at the service of another person’s pleasure.

This is different. Draco feels completely out of control. Parts of him feel positively _abraded,_ between the after-effects of the so-called cleaning spell, and the scrape of facial hair against his most delicate places. He feels raw and open and messy. It’s glorious.

And then Neville wraps one hand around Draco’s cock, using spit and precome to make his grip slick. Draco’s entire body jerks, dislodging Neville’s face from between his thighs, thrusting up into the wet circle of Neville’s fingers. Draco sobs and comes, hips thrusting beyond his control, over and over, as Neville tightens his hand and lets him do it.

“Gorgeous,” Neville is saying. “That’s it, Draco, give it to me, you’re _perfect.”_

Draco can’t breathe. He can’t stop his body from moving, even though he’s already over-sensitive and it’s almost _painful_ to keep going. Neville gentles his hand, then carefully moves it away, murmurs a spell to clean away the come dripping all over his fingers. Draco closes his eyes and pulls air into his lungs. Neville climbs up and leans over him, presses their mouths together, pets Draco’s hair, his face, his chest and arms, and down to his hip.

“Alright?” He asks.

“I _missed_ you,” Draco says, the words coming from some newly unlocked place inside his chest.

“Oh,” Neville whispers, kisses him again, soft. “I missed you, too.”

“Oh, my god,” Draco chokes, covering his eyes with one hand. “You should be in me by now. Please.”

“Are--” Neville stutters, then stops himself. He rests his forehead to Draco’s and their noses bump together. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Draco replies, nodding. Everything feels difficult, moving is too much for his overcharged nerves. “Yes, please.”

He hears Neville summon lube and tries to say it isn’t necessary after all that, but Neville shushes him and slicks himself quickly, then adds more to his fingers, sliding them around and inside Draco’s over-sensitized hole. He doesn’t move away, keeps his face close, drops kisses to Draco’s nose and cheeks and lips as he does it. Draco gasps and keens and twitches at every touch.

The preparation is quick. Draco tries to let his legs fall further apart; Neville helps, arranges him just so and lines himself up. Draco wishes he had the energy to hitch up his hips and push back, to make Neville _go faster,_ but his limbs are still numb with aftershocks from his orgasm.

Neville presses inside him between one breath and the next, which catches in Draco’s throat.

“Oh,” Neville whispers, the sweetly surprised expression Draco has pictured over and over again playing now across his face. “You feel-- This isn’t going to take long. At all.” He shudders.

Draco reaches up, hooks one hand around the back of his neck, and tugs. Neville leans in to kiss him, and the motion pushes his cock further inside. Draco cries out against his mouth, shudders with him. “Move,” he pleads.

Neville does, pushes in all the way and stays there for just a moment. Draco feels too many things to really catalog them all. A burning stretch, sparks of pleasure, weight on top of him, sweat dripping, hands slipping in it. Neville presses Draco’s knees up, folding him nearly in half, then hooks Draco’s legs over his own shoulders. Draco cries out at the changing angle, the sudden pressure against his prostate. Neville takes hold of Draco’s hands and presses them into the mattress on either side of his head, then thrusts, slow and deep and Draco can feel it in his chest, his _throat_.

“It’s good,” Draco finds himself saying, knowing Neville thrives on the reassurance, loves the praise. “So good. Go on, sweetheart.”

Neville makes a wonderful sound at that. “Sweetheart,” he echoes, and thrusts again, and again. “Talk to me,” he gasps against Draco’s cheek.

“I’ve thought of you every day,” Draco babbles. “Even when I tried not to, I did. I’ve thought about your cock, and your hands, and your mouth _god,_ all of it. I’ve thought-- _Ah_ , harder-- I’ve thought about things you said and, and--” Draco bites down hard on his own lip as Neville strokes into him at _just_ the right angle three hard, delicious times in a row. “I’ve thought of you, how good you are, just-- how--”

Draco isn’t hard again-- he _can’t_ bounce back that quickly, but Neville’s hips roll, their position remains just right, and the pleasure is overwhelming, relentless. It _feels_ like coming again. It feels like his body thinks he’s coming and can’t _stop._ He can’t speak through it.

Neville’s hands squeeze Draco’s tightly, just on the edge of _too_ tightly, as Draco shakes apart around him, and then he comes with a shout and one final, shaking press in. He says Draco’s name and Draco feels tears burn behind his own eyelids, gather at the corners of his eyes.

Draco thinks: _Worth the wait_.

***

Neville cleans them up without magic, rolling his eyes when Draco complains about his leaving to fetch a wet flannel.

“Spelling away the mess is fine,” he says, returning from the bathroom. “But water and a cloth is best, and besides, maybe I want to take care of you.”

“So noble,” Draco murmurs, meaning for it to sound like a complaint, but not quite succeeding. He hisses as Neville swipes the cloth gently over his hole.

“Sorry,” Neville whispers. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Draco says, and he means it, but he also wants Neville to stop fussing over him, so he takes the flannel and pitches it over the side of the bed.

Neville snorts and slides up next to him in bed. “Point taken,” he says, and presses a kiss to Draco’s bare shoulder.

“I have to go check on the kittens, soon,” Draco says regretfully, turning into Neville’s arms easily.

“I’d hoped you would stay over, but I understand,” Neville murmurs. “Can you just stay here a little bit longer?”

“I would have had to go home, eventually,” Draco says, a warm feeling spreading through him at the thought that Neville wants him to stay. “I’ve got to work tomorrow. We’re not all living a life of leisure all summer long.”

“I’m not,” Neville protests. “I’ve been restoring the old greenhouses at Terrace House, and volunteering with the Daughters’ Herbological League. Anyway, I probably should have thought ahead and suggested you bring a bag along or something.”

“Presumptuous,” Draco admonishes, not meaning it at all. “I can stay here a bit longer, yes.”

“And you’ll let me walk you home?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course. You’re so chivalrous.”

“Mostly I just want to snog you some more, and I can get a lot done in six blocks.” Neville grins. “Is that alright?”

Draco grins back and leans in, catching Neville’s lips with his own, just for a moment. “Yes, it’s alright.”

Neville kisses him again, longer, a little more suggestively, but they’re both utterly wrung out, so it peters out into something soft again, and then Neville shifts onto his back, gathering Draco up and posing him to his liking, tucked under Neville’s chin.

“We’re quite good together,” he says after a moment. “Right?”

“I think so,” Draco agrees, voice soft. He traces lines down the center of Neville’s chest, then walks his fingers back up. “This was...very good. The date, I mean. The rest was more than very good.”

“Yeah,” Neville sighs. “So I was thinking?”

“Yes?”

“Well.” Neville clears his throat. “I just think it might be nice if we. You know. Date. Er...officially?”

Draco can’t help but laugh. He leans up on one arm and looks down at Neville’s flushed face. “Are you asking me to go steady with you?”

Neville hides his face with one hand. “Stop, no,” he groans. “Well-- yes. I am. But less embarrassing and awkward than that. Forget I said anything.”

Draco removes his hand and kisses him soundly. “God, you’re so _precious,_ Longbottom.”

“Do you mind?” Neville asks.

Draco’s breath catches. “No, I don’t mind that you’re very sweet and inexplicably kind to me,” he says quietly. “Also, I’d like to date. You. Er...Officially.”

“Don’t make fun,” Neville says, but he’s clearly trying to hold down a grin.

“I’m not,” Draco says, and kisses him again. “Promise.” Another kiss. “I shouldn’t have teased you, I’m sorry. I can’t help it, I’m allergic to sincerity.”

Neville huffs and shakes his head, then upsets their position, rolling and taking Draco with him, covering Draco with his body, holding Draco’s hands gently in his own but placing them on either side of his head, an echo of how he held him down earlier.

“You aren’t allergic to sincerity,” Neville says. “You’re very good at pretending you are when you’re out of your depth. You’re _deflecting_.”

“Excuse you,” Draco scoffs, because that was _very_ accurate and therefore offensive. “That’s very bold of you to say.”

“Are you going to let me know you this time?” Neville asks, and normally Draco would look away, break the eye contact, but Neville looks so _serious,_ like he knew before he said anything that Draco would try to laugh it off, and Draco _can’t._

Neville brushes their noses together. “Well?”

“I want to,” Draco says, having to force himself to be honest. So far, it has been easy to be honest with Neville, but this conversation frightens him in ways he doesn’t fully understand. “I just. Don’t know _why_ this works. If it will _keep_ working.”

“That’s what dating _is,”_ Neville says kindly. “I mean, mostly. But. Draco, this works because I _like_ you. And, not to be _presumptuous_ again, but because you like me, too.”

Draco sighs. “I do like you,” he says.

“So date me,” Neville replies, grinning.

 _“Officially,”_ Draco adds.

“Yes.” Neville nods. “Officially.”

“Fine,” Draco drawls. “I _suppose.”_

“Brat,” Neville says, like an endearment, and kisses him again.

***

Draco gets a better look at the dozens upon dozens of plants that cover the living area of Neville’s flat once they’re dressed again. “Some of these aren’t magical,” he says, finger tracing the segmented tendril of a Christmas cactus.

“Some are just here to be pretty,” Neville replies. “Or to keep the others company.”

Draco looks at him over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Something I picked up in the States,” Neville says. He’s in the opposite corner of the flat, casting what look like diagnostic charms on a flat tray of seedlings. “Plants can complement one another. We learn that in school, no surprise there. But there’s more to it. Magical plants can be a bit unkind to each other. They benefit from having a mundane plant in between, to act like a buffer of sorts. Depending on the inert plant, the magical plant might even grow stronger than it could have on its own. The tentacula likes the Christmas cactus. Moly flowers do well in among plain old violets.”

“There’s a _tentacula_ in here?” Draco snatches his hand away from the cactus and steps back.

Neville chuckles. “Just to your right, there. Don’t worry, she’s just a baby. She’ll go to her own special greenhouse at Terrace House in a few months.”

Draco still edges away and toward a cluster of hanging vines. “It’s a striking metaphor,” he says. “Wizard plants are unharmed by and even improved by muggle ones. Wizard plants left to their own devices might strangle one another.”

Neville snorts. “If only the metaphor would work when applied to the world on a larger scale.”

Draco shrugs, eyes skimming over plant after plant. “It worked on me.”

Neville murmurs some sort of spell at the seedlings before crossing the little flat to stand beside Draco. “Do you think?”

“The muggle world is good for me,” Draco says, glancing up at Neville’s profile. He appreciates this about Neville; he knows when talking is fine, but eye contact is not. “It wasn’t a happy time in Massachusetts, but it made me willing to... _think outside the box_ when I came back here.”

“A very muggle phrase,” Neville says nodding. “I liked living with muggles. I liked their world.”

“I wouldn’t want to live in it. I almost had to.”

Neville slips an arm around Draco’s shoulders and kisses the top of his head. Draco leans into it, still caught off guard by the casual affection but determined to enjoy every microsecond of it.  “I’m glad you’re here,” Neville says.

Draco just turns into him and squeezes his arms around Neville’s waist. “I need to get home,” he says after a moment, regretful.

“Okay,” Neville says easily. “Let’s go, then. Will you let me come up and see the kittens? I love cats, but Gran was allergic.”

“Of course you can meet them,” Draco says, warmed, and Neville kisses him sweetly before leading him out of the flat.

***

The walk to Draco’s flat takes twice as long as it should, because they keep stopping to talk in pools of orange streetlight, to make out in shadowed corners and near darkened storefronts. Draco’s lips are buzzing as they approach the end of the Hogsmeade main road. He knows his hair must look ridiculous from Neville’s fingers carding through it over and over again.

There’s so much _talking,_ which Draco would have thought he would be exhausted by, once upon a time. He had spent the week after their first weekend together feeling wrung out and over stimulated, hiding in the quiet of his little dormitory when he wasn’t required in his classes. But that had been the result of participating in more meaningful contact with another person than he had in _years_ , and thinking and talking about a past that before then had been too overwhelming to face.

Draco is finding that he loves talking to Neville about _anything._ This walk, late at night in the silence of Hogsmeade on a weeknight, stays away from the heaver topics they seem so adept at throwing at each other.

Neville tells Draco about Terrace House.

“I can’t believe you don’t know where my family lives,” Neville teases. “We’re practically neighbors.”

“No,” Draco protests, eyebrows coming together in confusion. He shakes his head. “I would _know_ if you were from Wiltshire--”

“Well I _am_ from Wiltshire,” Neville laughs. “Terrace House is literally three estates over from Malfoy Manor.”

“Lord, my parents must have _really_ disliked your lot, then,” Draco marvels. “I was dragged to _every_ pureblood home in the country for teas and balls and awful amateur quidditch picnics.”

“Well, we didn’t do any of that,” Neville reasons. “And that’s at least part of why your family would never mixed with mine, to say nothing of our muggle-loving ways.”

“You said your great-grandmother was conservative.”

Neville makes an “Eh,” sound and holds up one hand, tilting it back and forth in a _so-so_ motion. “From what I gather she didn’t much like Grindelwald but thought Dumbledore was a madman, and all my Gran ever said was that her mother never paid Voldemort much mind. To be honest, I think she was more concerned with continuing to lord her old money over whoever was convenient at any given time than anything else.”

Draco thinks about that for a moment. “I always assumed your family...you know...not to be tactless, but--”

“You thought we were poor?”

Draco bites his lip and winces, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; it feels strange to talk about money, which he family still has, though not as much as they once did. It used to be so important to him, but now matters very little beyond what he needs to live a minimally satisfying existence.

“Well, sort of,” he says finally.

Neville clears his throat. “We’re not.”

Draco lets it go, though he does wonder about why a not-poor wizard in possession of an estate in Wiltshire would be living in a tiny Hogsmeade flat. He doesn’t want to weigh down the night, though, so he decides to save it for later. The thought that there will be a later, that he gets to talk to Neville again and again and again because they’re _dating_ now is completely thrilling. Draco lets the lightness of that thought carry him through the entrance to his building and up the stairs, his hand still clasped in Neville’s.

“I can’t wait to see these kittens,” Neville says as they ascend the cramped stairwell. “I’m still amazed you managed to acquire them on your way to a menagerie. That’s some luck.”

“I need to name them,” Draco says. “Maybe you could help me.”

Neville doesn’t say anything to that, so Draco pauses on the landing, looking over his shoulder. Neville grins up at him, sweet eyes all dashingly wrinkled at the corners with it.

“What?” Draco says.

“I would be honored to help you name your cats.”

Draco snorts and turns fully, and being two steps up from Neville means that for once _he’s_ the one bending down for a kiss. “You’re very adorable,” Draco says, when he’s done. “I do like you quite a lot.”

“Likewise,” Neville says, just standing there smiling back at him, and they’re _idiots_ and it’s lovely.

“Come on,” Draco says, his voice croakier than he means it to be. “Come see them.”

They turn the corner into Draco’s hallway and Neville crowds him in the narrow space, trying to hug him sideways and pinch him a little, teasing, as he says something about not realizing Slytherins were so easily flustered. Draco would like nothing more than to let himself be pressed up against the wall right here, two doors down from his flat.

“Hands to yourself for five seconds,” he laughs, shoving Neville gently away and taking a huge step away from him and towards his flat. “I am _not_ flustered. Come on, let’s--”

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. There is a bloody handprint on the wall between his neighbor Letitia’s door and his own.

“Neville,” he says, then swallows hard around the sudden wave of nausea, the shaking that is already starting inside his body.  

“Hmm? _Oh--”_ Neville grabs Draco by the arm as if to pull him back, but Draco moves free and rushes to his door, freezing again at what he sees there.

There, painted in dripping red blood, still wet, is a crude rendering of the Dark Mark.

 _“Merlin,”_ Neville breathes from behind him. “Draco, we should--”

“The kittens,” Draco chokes, and in a flash he has his wand out to key the wards.

Behind him Neville tries to grab him, to keep him from touching the door, from going into the flat, saying something about calling the Aurors first, but Draco can’t stop himself. He’s barely breathing, let alone thinking it through, and he has the door open and is in the flat before Neville can get to the end of his sentence. He hears a strangled sound behind him and feels Neville’s body like a wall behind his.

Draco freezes in the entryway, eyes scanning the flat. It looks fine. Normal.

He manages to unstick his feet from the floor, terror shooting like ice through his veins as he stumbles to the kitchen. Nothing is out of place, including the wards around the kittens, who slumber on top of each other on the little cushion he bought for them the first day. Draco lets out the breath he’s been holding and draws a shaky one in.

“Thank Merlin,” he whispers, closing his eyes and fighting down the post-adrenaline nausea that’s already trying to hit him in a wave. “Oh, my god.”

“Draco,” Neville says softly, and his hand lands on Draco’s shoulder. “We shouldn’t be in here.”

“No one came inside,” Draco says, pulling himself together and turning around. “Let’s go. I suppose I should clean the door.”

“Draco, no!” Neville reaches for him, stopping him from going to the door. “Wait,” he says, a little softer. “We have to be careful. It’s...you can’t just _scourgify_ blood off your front door. We should call the Aurors.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Draco says, gently shaking free. “I at least need to go look at it.”

“I don’t see why,” Neville says, following him.

“Just,” Draco sighs. “It’s alright. Let’s not panic. _Lumos.”_

Neville casts his own _lumos_ and they hold up their wands. Draco feels relief, sharp and sudden, as the dim hallway is illuminated and the smears on the door and on the wall--and now that he can see properly, Draco notices tiny puddles on the floor--are made clearer in the light.

“It’s paint,” Draco says, sagging back against Neville. “Just paint.”

“Thank Merlin,” Neville murmurs, rubbing a comforting hand up and down Draco’s arm. “Still...Draco, this is awful.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, feeling hollowed out and exhausted, and knowing he sounds it.

“Let’s file a report,” Neville says, still in that soothing, low tone. “We can just...I can call a friend. It doesn’t have to be the Aurors, or, you know, _all_ the Aurors.”

“You want to call Potter and tell him someone vandalized my front door,” Draco says flatly, moving away and toward the kitchen. “That’s. I don’t think so.”

“Then at least come back to mine with me,” Neville tries. “This is _seriously_ creepy. It seems just a little. Well, you know--threatening.”

Draco stops in the kitchen doorway, carefully keeping his back to Neville while he gets his face under control. His instinct is to snap, to get defensive or dismissive or both. He wants to lash out, be mean, say how stupid it is to be threatened by some silly paint. But he won’t do that, can’t do that to Neville, who is kind to him and genuinely likes him for whatever reason. Draco bites his tongue and refuses to ruin it.

“It’s just paint,” he says after a moment. “Close the door for me, I’m going to let the kittens out to play. Leave it for now.”

Neville sighs. Draco looks back at him and feels a stab of guilt in among the waves of fear and anger.

“It’s okay,” Draco says. “Just. Let’s pet some kittens, it’s fine.”

Neville shakes his head but he does smile and go to shut the door. By the time he turns and moves back into the flat, Draco has the orange kitten held out to him. Neville’s face does something unutterably precious, and he takes the cat.

“Come sit,” Draco says gently, leading him over to the sofa, the grey tabby tucked up under his own chin.

They sit, and after a moment Neville says, “Alright yes, kittens make everything better.”

Draco laughs. “They do. I knew they would. They’re sweet, aren’t they?”

“Very,” Neville agrees. He pauses, then speaks again, slowly, clearly considering his words. “Has...is this the first time this has happened?”

“At this flat?”

Neville winces. “I suppose that’s my answer.”

Draco hates this, but he thinks it’s probably best to be at least a little bit honest about the less appealing aspects of life in close proximity to a former Death Eater. It seems only fair to let Neville know what he’s getting into.

“I’ve never had my door vandalized, no,” Draco says. “My desk at Ibex, once. I’ve been...I suppose _heckled_ is a word that describes it. There are times when I know I’ve been recognized, because it gets very quiet. People...whisper. It’s not as bad as it was just after the war, or even since I first came back from Boston. But, sometimes things are. Unpleasant.”

 _“Unpleasant.”_ Neville makes a noise of frustration, his eyebrows drawing together in an angry frown. “It’s terrible, Draco. That’s... it’s not right.”

“You have to know that I made certain choices,” Draco says gently, wondering somewhere in the back of his mind if it can be called progress, that _he_ is comforting someone else about all of this. “I may have been young and there may have been...circumstances. But I did things that are still affecting other people in big and horrible ways. People don’t like that I get to live a normal life while others...while others are dead because of me.”

“Draco--”

“Neville, you can’t pretend I’m not the person I was. I am the same person who let Death Eaters into our school. I am the same person who nearly killed our Headmaster. One of my best friends died in front of me because of something I helped set in motion. I did _terrible_ things.”

“I know that,” Neville says, so softly. “I know. But you’re different now.”

“I’m a little different. Older and less stupid. I’m sorry for all that I’ve done. I took my punishment, and for the most part I’ve stopped telling myself that I deserved worse than I got. But other people still think that, and I don’t blame them.”

“You could be hurt,” Neville says. “This sort of thing escalates.”

“Yes,” Draco says. “Sometimes.”

“So, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to stay here so I don’t lie in bed staring at the ceiling wondering if you’re being murdered in your sleep by whoever did that to your door. Or you can come back to mine, I’m not picky.”

Draco sighs and watches the kittens play fight between them on the sofa. He can’t help but smile in the face of their antics, and it lets him stall for a moment. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what the healthy way to handle this is, or even the smart way.

“I’ll take the sofa,” Neville says quietly. “It’s certainly comfortable. And if you’ll let me, we’ll floo...we can floo Dean Thomas. He’s an Auror and a friend, and he’ll at least be sure to get this--this incident on record. Draco, I would feel so much better knowing--”

“Alright,” Draco says finally, because he _wants_ Neville to stay. “You’re not taking the sofa, don’t be ridiculous.”

Neville deflates with relief and nods. “Well, it just seemed polite to offer.”

“Very noble,” Draco says, a little snappish. He pulls himself back and shakes his head. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant to say. I’m just. Frustrated.”

“I know,” Neville murmurs, sliding an arm around Draco’s shoulders. “It’s fine. Will you let me floo Dean?”

Draco closes his eyes. Neville’s arm is very warm. The thought of getting to sleep off all this anger and adrenaline tucked up against all that warmth is appealing. Draco would prefer to skip straight to that. But he knows Neville is right. He should do something about this. Not doing anything is just more martyr behavior, which Anjali really wants him to stop doing.

Draco groans. “Fine, but please, don’t let him bring an entire task force in here, and _please_ make sure he doesn’t say anything to anyone else.”

“No Harry Potter, no Weasleys,” Neville says firmly. “I promise.”

Draco watches Neville gently set aside the kitten currently scaling his torso before getting up and marching over to the fireplace. He listens as Neville calmly and competently relays the situation to Dean, and notes that Neville does not mention that the person who lives in the vandalized apartment is Draco Malfoy. He watches Neville straighten up from the hearth with a satisfied nod. Draco feels...safe. Cared for. He blinks.

That’s the second time he thinks he’s very likely in love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeesh, I hope y'all enjoyed that— for some reason this chapter really made me nervous? Anyway - next chapter will move back into Neville POV. I am *hoping* that this story will wrap in 3-4 more chapters. Thank you all so much for reading and leaving kudos and comments. It's been SO wonderful, thank you all so much!
> 
> NOTE (5/7/19): Well, I accidentally borrowed the name for Neville's family home from another fic, not realizing where it came from in my brain. The Grange is used by the incredibly talented Casspeach in her amazing Draco/Neville fic "Strange Bedfellows" which I recently reread, and realized where that name had come from as soon as I did. Jeesh. Anyway, so as not to borrow the name without permission, I've gone ahead and changed the name of the Longbottom estate to Terrace House. Sorry, guys!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little later than I intended, sorry! I'm well on my way to finishing the next chapter, and have plans for the next (final?) bit. Thank you all for continuing to read and leaving such lovely comments. They mean so much!
> 
> EDIT: I'd like to thank TwinzLover for pointing out a huge plothole in this chapter with regards to canon. I've made a little tweak here to start fixing it. This is what happens when one writes fic for a canon one hasn't read in 10+ years. I appreciate the heads up so much!

Neville waits outside Draco’s building and meets Dean, who apparrates with a crack into a neighboring courtyard.

“Bugger,” Dean grunts from behind a wrought iron fence, lifting one hand in greeting before calling out. “Wait there, I’ll get it this time.”

With a crack, Dean reappears several meters to Neville’s left, in front of a townhouse with peeling blue shutters.

“You have the worst aim,” Neville chuckles. “Alright, Dean?”

Dean hustles over to him, rolling his eyes. “Shut it,” he mutters. “These are my off-hours and I’m doing you a favor, here. What the hell am I doing in Hogsmeade in the middle of the night on a Tuesday?”

“Like I said on the floo, someone painted the Dark Mark on a door upstairs and I’d like to report it and make certain...Well, I suppose I want to be sure the flat is safe.”

“Right. Probably some kids thinking they’re funny, but it’s good to check.” Dean crosses his arms and considers Neville with narrowed eyes. “You were awfully cagey on the call. Does this have something to do with you standing up me and Harry and Ron for the game tonight?”

“I didn’t _stand you up--”_ Neville sighs. “Look, Dean, I can’t get into that right now. This is more serious than kids playing a prank. I need you to know, it’s very important that you know before you go up there, that this is Draco Malfoy’s flat.”

Dean’s face freezes. His entire body stills and his eyes go huge. Neville stares back, fighting to keep his own expression impassive, bland.

After a long moment, Dean sputters. “I’m sorry, _what?_ I thought you had a date tonight!”

“I _did_!” Neville hisses. “With Draco Malfoy, obviously!”

 _“Obviously?!”_ Dean squawks. “No, mate, _not_ obviously! You skipped Tuesday night Quidditch for--”

“Watch it, Dean.”

 _“Merlin’s saggy balls,_ Neville!”

“Listen,” Neville sighs. “I know that during the war, at Malfoy Manor--”

“I barely ever laid eyes on him there,” Dean interrupts. “ _He_ wasn’t a snatcher. When I did see him he looked like hell and just as pants-shittingly terrified as anyone else. This isn’t about _that,_ so much as it’s about the fact that he’s a bit of a dick in addition to having been stupid enough to--”

Neville rubs a and over his own face and groans. “I don’t have time for this. Neither, actually, do you. Dean, I need you to help  me with this.”

“Mate--”

“Dean,” Neville snapped, cutting him off.  “Please, if it’s not too much to ask --and I know it’s a lot--go upstairs, and _help me deal with this._ I’m-- I’m _with_ him. We’re dating, yes, but you don’t know--you don’t know the story, alright? He is frightened, and he doesn’t deserve this shit, and franky, I was having a really nice evening before some dickhead decided to splash paint all over my--my boyfriend’s front door. I’m _furious,_ but I don’t want him to know that and get all--Well, I want to find whoever did it and make them pay, but that’s not an option. Making sure he’s safe _is._ I want this taken care of. _Now._ ”

Dean stands still and silent through Neville’s tirade, which Neville very nearly feels bad about the moment the words stop coming. For a moment, he’s afraid Dean will shout at him and leave. He’s about to wince and try to smooth things over--Dean’s doing him a favor, after all, and despite what Dean might say about the war, this is a more sensitive situation than Neville had really considered before he called--but Dean gives him the strangest look.

“What?” Neville demands, this time unable to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“It’s just I could’ve sworn you were holding a bloody great sword in your hand for a second there,” Dean says dully.

Neville growls and rolls his eyes. “Oh, for--”

“I mean, up until the point where you got all flustered calling _Malfoy_ your _boyfriend_.”

_“Dean.”_

Dean puts up his hands. “I’m not going to joke about it, Neville, _christ._ You can calm down, mate, I promise I won’t.” He sighs. “And it’s really alright. I can do my job, so let’s just get this over with.”

***

Neville is relieved to find Draco sitting on the floor with the kittens when he and Dean get up to the flat. There’s an awkward moment in which Dean stays out in the hallway, eyes flicking between the red paint dripping down the door and the scene inside the flat, while Draco stares impassively up from the floor, one imperious eyebrow quirked over eyes kept carefully blank.

“Alright there, Malfoy?” Dean says, stilted, as he steps over the little puddles of paint on the ground and into the flat.

“Thomas,” Draco replies, equally stiff.

He makes to stand up, but Dean waves a hand and shakes his head.

“I’ll come down there,” Dean says, squatting down to the floor. “My girlfriend’s allergic, but I love cats. Mind if I pet them?”

Neville is taken aback and, judging by the little twitch at the corner of his eye, so is Draco. But he nods, and Dean reaches out to gently scratch behind the orange kitten’s ear. Then, he very casually and quietly gets a statement of the events of the evening from Draco. When he’s done, he has both kittens biting at his fingertips, and Draco is looking between Dean and Neville with a little crease between his eyebrows.

“Relax, Malfoy,” Dean says, straightening up from his crouch. “You never bothered me much personally when we were kids, and I wasn’t close enough friends with Harry to hear the nightly bitch and moan about whatever it was you were up to at any given time. The less said about my stay in your basement, the better. I know you didn’t...Well, I’ve always _assumed_ you didn’t...Let’s not dwell on that. What I know of you, I know from the papers, which are often full of shit. Here--” Dean reaches into his pocket and produces a little rectangle of parchment. “This is my contact information. If anything like this happens again, get in touch with me, would you?”

“Oh,” Draco says, clearly very surprised, and takes the parchment. He blinks at it and nods. “Yes, I can do that. Is that all you need for--” he waves toward the door to the flat. “All this?”

“No,” Dean says. “I’m going to do some quick diagnostic charms, and pull some fingerprints--a muggle thing--”

“I know about muggle police procedures,” Draco says eagerly. He struggles to his feet, gently nudging the cats out of the way. “I’ve watched their shows on the telly. Aurors dust for prints now?”

Neville hangs back and bites his lip to keep from grinning as Dean visibly starts at that sudden show of enthusiasm. Draco and his muggle fascination; Neville finds it very cute.

“Well,” Dean says. “No, we don’t dust for them, but a spell was developed for it.”

“Can I watch?”

Neville gives up and laughs quietly. “Actually,” he says. “I’d like to see this, too.”

Dean looks between them. “You’re both weird, but sure,” he says.

“Wonderful,” Draco says. “Just let me settle the kittens. Be right back.”

Draco scoops the cats up in his hands and heads off to the kitchen. Dean turns to Neville, both eyebrows up near his hairline.

“I don’t remember him much, to be honest,” Dean says. “But I know he wasn’t so--”

“He’s different, yeah,” Neville murmurs, keeping his voice low. “Not completely, mind, but--he’s good. A good person. Trying to be one, anyway.”

“Aren’t we all,” Dean scoffs, just as Draco comes back from the kitchen rubbing his hands together. Dean shakes his head and shrugs. “Alright, let’s do this, I guess.”

***

Dean leaves, significantly more relaxed after he’s answered their increasingly silly questions about Auror standard operating procedure. He shakes Draco’s hand and says something ominous to Neville about being owed a pint before he goes.

Neville scourgifies the door while Draco collects the kittens and cleans their litter tray before tipping his head toward a door off his sitting area.

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “You?”

Neville nods and follows him into the bedroom, where the kittens tumble all over each other on the bed while Draco and Neville strip down to their underwear. It’s so easy to slide under the covers and pull Draco close. Startlingly easy. The instant release of tension from Neville’s body takes him by surprise. Draco curls into him, his head resting on Neville’s outstretched arm. A kitten makes its way up Neville’s leg, so light he can barely feel it.

“Will they get hurt if they fall off?”

Draco yawns and shakes his head. “Cushioning charms. There’s nothing in here they can get into.” He flings an arm in the general direction of a corner of the room. “Spare litter tray over there under a disillusionment charm. It’s safe in here. When they get a little bigger they can have the run of the flat.”

“D’you have any ideas for names?”

“Mmm.” Draco’s eyes are lidded, sleepy. “No, and it’s making me crazy. They need names.”

“We’ll think of something,” Neville murmurs. The grey tabby curls up over Draco’s shoulder, which means it’s the orange kitten currently chewing on Neville’s hair. “Sleep now.”

“Kiss me goodnight,” Draco slurs, already halfway gone.

Neville does, softly, and then in moments drops off, his forehead pressed to Draco’s.

***

The morning, despite the rough end to the night before, is peaceful. Neville can’t remember the last time he woke up this happy, and once he and Draco extract themselves from the warm blankets and sleepy kittens to clean their teeth, he finds himself unable to stop grinning, even as he tries to kiss Draco for the fifteenth time or so.

“I need to go to work,” Draco laughs. “In twenty minutes.”

“I can do a lot with twenty minutes,” Neville murmurs somewhere in the vicinity of Draco’s jawline. “Set a timer.”

Draco laughs again and shoves him back. “I don’t doubt it. I’m going to get showered and dressed. Help yourself to more coffee when you finish with that.”

Draco scoops his own mug off the counter on his way by. Neville finds himself in the perfect position to give him a slap on the backside as he goes. Draco yelps and jumps, then casually throws a wandless, and therefore mild, tickling jinx at Neville’s sides. He smirks as Neville nearly goes down in a pile of giggles and sashays off to the bathroom, humming to himself. By the time Neville stops feeling ticklish, both kittens are licking his ears.

He’s still on the floor when Draco comes back.

***

“When can I see you again?” Neville asks, and it must surprise Draco, because he turns from setting the wards on his door with a start.

“Really?”

He sounds genuinely surprised. Neville shrugs and says, “Well, yeah. Unless you don’t want to go out with me again, but I thought we sort of settled that last night?”

Draco sets the wards and starts down the narrow hallway, outpacing Neville by several steps so that when he next speaks all Neville can see is the back of his head.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you took back all that about _officially dating,_ considering the display you witnessed last night,” Draco says, clearly forcing a casual tone.

Neville catches up to him easily. He has to turn sideways to squeeze past Draco and fling an arm out to halt his progress down the hall. Neville stumbles and fumbles the entire maneuver, but the end result has him grasping Draco by the upper arms and ducking his head to try and meet Draco’s downcast eyes. Two bright splotches of pink have started to spread across Draco’s cheeks.

“Draco,” Neville says softly. “Last night was lovely. It was out of a dream, right up until some arsehole decided to deface your door. And even after that, it was fantastic.”

“You’re being very kind,” Draco says, finally raising his eyes to Neville’s. His chin tilts at a defiant angle, and his eyebrows lift imperiously, but the flush at his cheeks has only worsened. “You don’t have to be.”

Neville sighs. “If you start in on your nonsense _again,_ after all this time, about what a hopeless case you are, after all the lovely walks and dates and the very good sex, I am going to be very, very cross with you.”

Draco huffs and shakes his head. “I’m not trying to be a martyr, you idiot, I’m being a realist. The paint was inconvenient and upsetting. Things can be a lot more than inconvenient for me, and far worse than upsetting. I’m saying, you don’t have to subject yourself--”

Neville kisses him just to shut him up. It works, and then some. Draco responds with a sweet little broken sound in his throat, so Neville deepens it, hauls him in closer, and by the end of it Draco is clinging to him. Neville pulls back just far enough so that he can speak.

“I’ll subject myself to whatever I want,” Neville whispers. “You don’t get to tell me not to.”

“I’m not telling you what to do--”

“You’re trying to. Stop.” Neville kisses him again, briefly. “Just stop. Tell me when I can see you again.”

Draco lets out a shuddering breath and shakes his head. “You really are an idiot. But. Any time. You can see me whenever you want. As often as you want. Please.”

Neville grins, then grins wider when Draco seems to snap back to himself and scowls.

“Oh, shut up,” Draco mutters.

“Didn’t say anything. Anytime, though? As often as I want? Does Golda give you personal days? Because we can turn around and go right back into your flat--”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”

Neville laughs and kisses him again, then says, “You really like me, hmm?”

Draco pushes him away with a muffled growl. “Ugh, _no.”_

“Yeah, you do,” Neville says, and though he manages to pull off a little cockiness in his voice, his insides feel vaguely like they’re melting.

Draco strolls past him and continues toward the stairwell. “You’re _not bad,”_ he says, but he looks over his shoulder and smiles, and it’s the real one, a bit tentative and very unpracticed, not the smirk his puts on most of the time.

Neville smiles back. “Well,” he says. “I think you’re fantastic.”

Draco goes all red again and won’t look at him until they’re outside on the sidewalk, and even then it’s only barely and just to say: “Thank you for last night.” He presses a quick kiss to Neville’s cheek and apparrates on the spot, though Neville knows he only has a handful of blocks to walk to the Gallipot.

Neville snorts to himself and shakes his head. For a moment, with the phantom heat of Draco’s lips lingering on his face and his sudden departure throwing off his balance, Neville isn’t sure what his next move will be. It’s early, but most of his friends are en route to work by now. Except for Luna. Neville does a little mental math in his head and figures she’s probably finished feeding the skrewts by now.

Decision made, he apparrates.

***

“Dean called late last night,” Luna says placidly, not even bothering to look up from where she’s feeding a tank full of tiny little frogs, one by one, with an eyedropper.

Neville groans. “I asked him to keep it quiet.”

Luna replaces the cap on the little potion bottle she’s holding, whispers some sort of incantation at the frogs, and then covers their tank with a mesh screen. “He only called me,” she says, turning from the tank and scanning Neville with her eyes, top to bottom. “That’s what he said, at least.”

“Warning you of my imminent demise, was he?”

Luna holds up her hands, long pale fingers stained purple from Merlin only knows what tincture or feed solution or bodily secretion from one of her menagerie. “Don’t be angry with him,” she says, placating. “We all worry for each other. It’s meant with love, you know that.”

Neville sighs and scrubs at his neck. “No one needs to worry about me.”

“I agree,” Luna says, tilting her head before sauntering off out of her little barn, an indication that Neville should follow. They start out across the meadow, up toward Luna’s father’s house, which has appeared to lean slightly to the left ever since the explosion during the war. He had done the repairs himself, of course, and the end result reminds Neville of a birthday cake that’s baked just slightly uneven.

Luna picks a wildflower and hands it to Neville, then picks another to twirl between her own fingers. While Neville waits for her to say something, he mentally catalogues the plant in his hand - muggle, water avens, _geum rivale,_ non-magical with roots rich in tannins, complimentary to half the ingredients in the most common healing draughts. Luna hands him another before he’s finished, but speaks before he can start rattling off information about this one in his head.

“Be careful,” she says, then holds up a hand to cut off his protest. “Not of Draco Malfoy. Unlike Dean, and probably Harry and Ron as well, maybe even Hermione, I know you’re capable of protecting yourself. I know you can see people, see what they really are. I don’t think most of our friends can. It’s not their fault, it’s just how they are. Grey area isn’t their strong suit. It will make it hard for you. It’ll be hard for Draco to be around them. But I suppose you know that.”

Neville does know that. He’d thought about it, that night after he walked Draco home from the Three Broomsticks. He had known he wanted to be with Draco then; it hadn’t been a question. Draco agreed to go on one date with him, had already alluded to a second, and Neville had gone home with his feet on the ground and his head somewhere up above the clouds. Even as he told himself he was being a soppy idiot, Neville had already known. This time, it would last longer than a couple of days. This time, it would mean even more. It would mean everything. Neville wasn’t a romantic, he _wasn’t,_ but he’d felt like one that night and ever since.

And so of course he had thought, as his mind raced through a hundred possibilities: _What happens when I want him to meet my friends? Can that ever happen? Does that matter?_

Now, Luna smiles knowingly and pats his shoulder. “It will be hard, not impossible,” she says. “I have a good feeling about it. But back to being careful.” They’ve reached the front porch of the Lovegood house. Luna turns to him at the bottom of the steps and looks up at him, serious, her wide, misty eyes watching him carefully. “What happened last night is nothing compared to what some people would like to do to a former Death Eater, any former Death Eater, let alone a Malfoy.”

“I know,” Neville admits, wincing. “I’m not that naive, and Draco already said as much. But I hate to think about it.”

“You must,” Luna says. “You must be vigilant, and you must ask for help. You _must_ make Draco ask for help like you did last night, or you could both be hurt.”

“I know,” Neville murmurs. “I _do_ know.”

“Good,” Luna says, nods, and then seamlessly her expression goes dreamy. “Now, come inside and have breakfast with Father and I, and we can talk about inviting Draco to your surprise party next week.”

Neville freezes. “What.”

Luna gives him a funny look. “You know about the surprise party, you don’t have to pretend for me.”

“No--” Neville shakes his head. “I mean yes, I know about it, Harry knows too, we’re not idiots, but. You want to invite Draco?”

Luna laughs and turns away, heading into the house. “As if I would forget to invite your boyfriend, Neville, _really.”_

Neville is left blinking on the porch, gobsmacked.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers to himself. “He’s my _boyfriend.”_

Luna pokes her head out the front door. “Of course he is. Now come on.”

***

Neville ends up at home around supper time. Not at his flat, but home-home at Terrace House. When he arrives, the house elves are in an uproar about something. Neville doesn’t stop to listen to the debate raging in the front hall, or the break-off discussion taking place at the top of the staircase.

Ever since he let Hermione help him reorganize the House after his Gran died, the house elves have been conducting business democratically and by committee. Every time Neville comes home there’s some sort of cabinet meeting playing out in his sitting room. It’s fine by him; he’s barely ever there, and when he does make it home there is always a good meal available if he asks, and the elves practically helped raise him, so they’re always very sweet with him.

For now, though, Neville bypasses the sitting room, were he can hear raised elfen voices, and heads down to the kitchens and out the french doors which open up to the summer garden. The air is hot and thick with the smell of his Gran’s Juliet roses, and the late day sun is just low enough that it breaks through the trees to the East, casting the hill which rolls down beyond the garden to the greenhouses in a golden-green haze.

Neville breathes it in deep, tilting his head back and letting go of the tension in his shoulders. He gives the garden a cursory looking-over as he passes through, but he has spent many hours out here tending to the roses this year, and everything looks as it should. The easternmost corner still needs some care, having suffered the most in the time after Gran died and Neville’s years in the States, but that patch will have to hold until next summer when he’ll have more time to spend on the garden.

For now, Neville continues on his way through the garden gate and down the hill, looping behind Big greenhouse and then to the right of Little greenhouse, and into the little meadow beyond, which is a riot of summer colors at the moment. Wildflowers everywhere; some magical, some mundane, all of them counted among Neville’s most favorite plants on the face of the earth. He doesn’t know why; it makes little sense for someone who dedicates his life to the careful cultivation of fussy, delicate plants to be so taken in by ones which don’t need a single thing from him to live and spread and tangle all over the countryside, all mixed up together the way they do.

But here he is, loving wildflowers above all else.

Neville picks an armful and takes them into Little greenhouse, where he argues with himself over the arrangement for the better part of an hour. He would like nothing more than to send all of them, but the bouquet would be two feet around if he did that, and there isn’t a single surface in Draco’s flat that can handle an arrangement that large. Plus, he thinks, it might be coming on a little strong a bit early in the game to send a bloke seven hundred wildflower blooms after the second date.

Neville trims and inspects and gathers, then loosely ties the whole thing up in a bundle. He’ll add a few of Gran’s roses to the mix, he thinks, and he carries it all up to the garden to choose those. It takes another thirty minutes to decide on three blooms the size of is fist, and then several more to get the placement just right.

Neville’s handwriting is a mess; he uses an autoquill to write a note: _Thank you for a lovely time. Are you free this Friday?_

He’s just heading up to the owlery when Mizzy, the house elf who seems to have taken up a ministerial position in the household these days, skitters out of the drawing room and shoves the door shut with a frustrated grunt.

“Everything alright?” Neville asks, paused on the stair.

“Oh, Master Neville!” Mizzy straightens and clears her throat. “Please to be excusing Mizzy, it was not told to Mizzy that you had come home.” She glares past Neville, to where a knot of elves had been whispering at each other.

At that, several sets of elf feet scramble away from the staircase landing. Neville looks up in time to see one last socked foot disappear round the corner.

“No problem, Mizzy,” Neville laughs. “I’m only here to send some flowers.”

Mizzy’s eyes go sharp and she scuttles across the foyer to inspect the bouquet in Neville’s hand. “The pink roses is not being Miss Lovegood’s favorite, and the other fellow was being allergic.” Mizzy’s nose wrinkles when she references Graham, who she still dislikes even years after the fact. “These flowers is for the new wizard? _Again?”_

Neville snorts. “You’re awfully nosey, Mizzy.”

“Three flowers!” Mizzy ignores him and claps her hands. “You have been sending flowers to the new wizard _three_ times, Master Neville. “You will stay for supper and tell Mizzy _everything.”_

Neville’s throat goes a little tight at that. He really loves Mizzy, loves all the house elves at Terrace House, but Mizzy has tried the hardest with him since Gran died. She even wrote him in Salem, a practice rarely taken up by elves, but the Longbottom elves have always been...unique.

As a child Neville never knew that other families didn’t talk to their elves or joke with them. He didn’t know that most other magical children were not reprimanded by frazzled elves, but more often than not were the ones doing the reprimanding. Neville hadn’t known punishment was a _thing_ with house elves until he visited a distant cousin in Dublin when he was seven.

Neville thinks a mother or a grandmother would be just as excited for him as Mizzy is; he misses both, but _Merlin,_ is he glad to have Mizzy.

He nods and Mizzy pats his hand. “We is all missing you, Master Neville,” she says. “You must send your flowers and then come tell us about your adventures.”

He’s had a lazy summer, but Mizzy would find a way to make quidditch matches, pub nights, and yes, dating a strange and complicated man, sound like he’d climbed mountains. Neville smiles at her and places is other hand over hers for a moment.

“Alright,” Neville says. “Go wrap up the debate in there. Don’t let Itsy trouble herself over supper; I’ll order takeaway.”

“Excellent,” Mizzy squeaks, and then cracks away, presumably to the sitting room to give the elves inside a piece of her mind.

***

Mizzy convinces Neville to sleep at Terrace House that night, though it doesn’t take much. The takeaway Chinese and then the dessert pressed upon him by the elves, so thrilled to have someone around to both serve and to air their grievances to, is rich and delicious and, he thinks ruefully, bound to put more padding on his belly.

“Master is too thin,” Denzy insists.

“Too thin and too hard on hisself,” Mizzy agrees. She spoons more fried rice onto his plate. “Master will eat this. Now.”

Neville still sleeps in his childhood bedroom, even though Mizzy has dropped about a thousand hints that he could take on his father’s old rooms or, to his horror, Gran’s. He couldn’t possibly. He’s told Mizzy over and over that he’ll move into the Master suite if and when it seems appropriate, but until that time, he’s fine with his room, which is the one he moved into the year he turned eleven. It doesn’t look exactly like it did then, but it’s not much different, either. It’s comfortable. It feels safe.

Neville is just about to turn in, all stripped down to his t-shirt and pants, and very ready to fall into a food-induced stupor with a book or something, when an owl scratches at his window.

It’s the owl he sent with flowers earlier, and she’s carrying a little note.

“G’d’evening, Charys,” he murmurs, scritching just at the back of her little head. She hoots at him sweetly and pecks at his fingers for treats. “Don’t have any, silly girl. Go on up to bed, I’m sure there’s an elf waiting to feed you up.”

Charys makes another adorable little sound, ruffles up a bit, and takes off. Neville takes his mail to his bed where he can sit cross-legged in the center of it and open it, like he did as a child when he received Green Thumb Monthly and seed orders.

The note is hastily scrawled, but the handwriting is still impeccable. The only thing that gives it away is a splotch from where Draco clearly pressed a bit too hard with the quill.

It reads:

_You sent me the flowers when I started this job, didn’t you?_

_You are a STALKER._

_Thank you. All of the flowers have been beautiful. Yes, I am free on Friday. I ought to be home by six this evening, floo me to talk details?_

_Thank you, again, for the flowers._

_Draco Malfoy_

Neville smiles and checks the time. It’s well after seven, which is earlier than he thought--dodging the house elves’ questions of marriage, their none-too-subtle attempts to convince him to take up permanent residence at the house, the stress that always came with moving through a house that no longer holds his Gran, and the food, had all made everything feel so much more exhausting, on top of the upset the night before and his worried about Draco in the back of his mind all day.

Now, he feels energized. He had thought about floo calling just to make sure everything was alright, but had dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t do him any good, acting like a mother hen. For all he knew, that would get Draco’s back up about everything all over again, and the last thing he wanted was to be kept at a distance. The absolute fucking _last_ thing he wanted was to risk losing what was happening between him and Draco at an almost alarming pace.

But now he’s been invited to call, so Neville won’t look like a _“stalker”_ if he does just that. He scrambles off the bed and falls to his knees before his fireplace, lighting it in a hurry. Then he stands, brushing himself off, stopping to wonder if he should check his hair in the mirror or something--no, that’s stupid, that takes too much time--and then reaching for the pot of floo powder.

 _“Fucking_ hell,” Neville growls when he sees it’s practically empty. He can get just the barest of pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He has to blow it into the flames so it doesn’t just scatter uselessly over the hearth, and then he’s almost too out of breath to say Draco’s address in time. The call does connect, though, and Neville takes only a split second to get himself together before shoving his head into the flames.

He sees Draco sitting on his hearth with the kittens and he wants to pull his head right back out, track down more powder, and floo his entire self there immediately.

“Hello?” Draco waves the hand not holding a wriggling cat. “Are you alright?”

Neville blinks. “Er. Yeah, I’m fine. Hi.”

“Hi,” Draco parrots. “Thank you for the flowers. Again.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

“Where are you ordering these from?” Draco looks somewhere off to his left, presumably to the flowers, wherever he’s chosen to put them. “They’re so...unique. I’ve never seen the like in a flower shop, wizard or muggle.”

Neville feels himself flush and nearly stammers when he answers. “Oh, just...a place I know. It’s a secret.”

“Did you just wink at me?”

_“No.”_

“Yes, you did,” Draco grins. “You’re hopeless. Anyway, the roses are amazing, the entire flat smells of them and there are only three. What are they?”

“They’re called Juliet roses.” Neville settles in on his forearms, glad this is shaping up to be a longer chat. “They’re known for their fragrance.”

Draco’s eyes slide shut as he breathes in deeply. “It’s lovely,” he sighs. “And...the purple flower? The one with spiky bits?”

“Scottish thistle,” Neville says softly, pleased to have been asked, pleased that Draco pointed out the wildflower Neville chose because it reminded him most of Draco himself. “It reminds me of Hogwarts. And you, actually.”

Draco opens his eyes and smiles sweetly back at him. “That’s nice.”

“It is,” Neville agrees. “Why do you ask, though? About the names, I mean.”

Draco goes over all bashful, casting his eyes to the side and clearing his throat. “Well.”

“Yes?”

“Well...” He clears his throat again. “Well, don’t you think Juliet and Thistle would make excellent kitten names?”

Neville comes close to falling backwards out of the call. His hands scrabble at his own hearth. “That’s--” he clears _his_ throat now. “Yes, I think those are excellent names.”

He crushes down the urge to say: _Are you sure? For me? Because of me? But they’re your kittens and you could have them for_ decades _, so are you_ sure _?”_

Draco just nods and makes little noises at the cats between his teeth, murmuring: “Are these your names? Lady Juliet and Sir Thistle? Hmm? Yes? Yeah? Well, alright then.”

“Merlin help me,” Neville says. “That’s precious.”

Draco looks up from the little orange tabby, newly titled _Sir Thistle_ , and raises one thin eyebrow. “Don’t start.”

“I’ll start if I want to,” Neville scoffs. “Anyway, when can I pick you up on Friday night? I think it’s my turn to plan the date, is that right?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “If you insist on taking turns, then yes.”

“Lovely. Seven?”

“That’s fine.”

“Good. So, how was your day? Everything okay?”

Draco only hesitates for a moment before nodding. “No more Dark Marks, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not all I was asking,” Neville says, hoping he does a good enough job hiding his relief as it washed through him. “I genuinely want to know how your day was. How is the Gallipot? Is Golda any less terrifying now that you’ve known her for a bit?”

Draco snorts and shakes his head. As he launches into a retelling of his afternoon spent shouting at both Golda, who couldn’t hear him, and a customer, who didn’t want to, Neville listens but allows himself to take in the finer details of Draco’s face as he talks, the way his eyebrows seem to speak volumes, the wicked turn-up of the side of his mouth when he’s about to say something vaguely rude.

Neville thinks: _Is this love? What does it feel like to love someone?_ He wishes he could ask his mum, or his dad. He supposes if he had ever asked his Gran, she’d have told him to buck up and focus _for Merlin’s sake._ If Neville asks Mizzy, she’ll just start planning a wedding.

There’s no one to ask, so Neville will have to figure it out for himself, he supposes.

“Anyway, my hair was stained blue until after lunch,” Draco is saying. “But I think Mr. Hendrickson will steer clear of mixing those in future, as I told him to in the first place.”

Neville just sits there and smiles at him like an idiot.

“Did you even pay attention to any of that?” Draco demands.

“I did, it’s just...you’re very attractive.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Disgusting,” he scoffs. “Yes, you’re very pretty too. _Goodnight,_ Longbottom.”

Neville laughs. “Goodnight, Draco. Sleep well.”

“You, too,” Draco replies, his voice softening. “Don’t get strangled by any of your mad plants before our date, okay?”

“Of course,” Neville agrees easily, then resists the stupid urge to blow him a kiss or some nonsense before disconnecting the call.

He rolls over, flopping back on his hearth with a sigh. There are no plants to strangle him in his old bedroom at Terrace House. He hadn’t thought to tell Draco that that was where he was calling from, and now wishes he had. He wants to tell Draco all about it; wants to tell him that Mizzy mothers him, always has done, and how much Neville appreciates that now. He thinks Draco might understand, or at least, he thinks Draco won’t find it too unbearably sad. The only friend who has ever witnessed the atmosphere of Terrace House is Luna; Neville had been sure she would like it, wouldn’t judge him for its faults and quirks.

Neville wonders what Draco would think of the ramshackle wings of the house, pinned to either side of the main building, which is the only bit of the estate that has been well maintained in the last century. He wonders what Draco would say about Neville’s plans to refurbish the ruins of the terraced garden that used to spill down from the house’s facade, the origin of its name, of his ideas for the two main greenhouses, the third and fourth outbuildings he’s planning.

Neville wonders what Draco would look like in the early evening sunshine, against a field of wildflowers.

When he drags himself up off the floor and into bed to read until he’s sleepy, Neville can’t stop picturing it. He doesn’t stop. He barely reads a page.

When he sleeps, he dreams of that, of kissing Draco Malfoy in his wildflower field.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm meansgirlwrites on Twitter! Come say hi!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello patient people, I hope you're still reading! Sorry for the long delay between this chapter and the last - I will try not to let it take so long again! This story is fully planned out, now, so hopefully updates will be much quicker from here on out!
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos. You're all wonderful and it means so much to me that you have been enjoying this fic. 
> 
> None of you pointed out a GLARING proofreading error in the last chapter (I left in placeholder text, you guys, PLACEHOLDER TEXT!) and I just really hope that means that it simply wasn't noticed, heh. This chapter, like that one, is un-beta'd. Please forgive me my errors, and I hope you enjoy :D

Draco finds himself in a strange state on Friday night. It’s as if he comes back to himself mid-kiss, mid-thrust of his own hips. He’s fully clothed and so is Neville; they’re tangled up on Draco’s sumptuous sofa, having arrived back from their third date some time ago, but Draco can’t be certain how long it’s been. Draco isn’t sure how he managed to get into his own flat, onto his sofa, and well on his way to getting sweaty and naked with his _boyfriend_ without _realizing_ it. He freezes for a second, maybe two, while his brain snaps back to attention and processes their position. He tries to cover, to act like everything is perfectly fine, but naturally, he doesn’t get away with it. He had paused with his mouth pressed against Neville’s, his hands hovering somewhere over Neville’s arms. It was noticeable. Very, very noticeable.

Neville pulls away, one hand pressing gently at the center of Draco’s chest. “Are you alright?”

Draco, straddling Neville’s lap, breathes in and out slowly in an attempt to buy himself enough time to come up with something reasonable to say. He can’t. He winces as he speaks. “I...I’m sorry, I just. I think I did the thing muggles say. I was on, um, auto-pirate.”

Neville’s eyebrows raise. “Autopilot?”

“That, yes.” Draco clambers off Neville’s lap to sit beside him on the sofa. He stays close, not wanting to upset him and not wanting to go far, anyway. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened. My head, it just went blank somewhere around leaving the restaurant.”

Neville’s brow knits and he bites at his lip. “Did I do something?”

Draco shakes his head and grabs for Neville’s hand, hating that he looks so worried. “No! Of course not. It’s my fault. Sometimes I get very worked up, and I just--I shut down. I know that sounds bad--”

“I don’t understand,” Neville interrupts softly. “What causes such a thing to happen?”

Draco shrugs. “It could be lots of things. Usually stress. I had a bit of a bad day today, and then--I’m very nervous about the birthday party...thing, and I think I reached capacity on, you know, _thinking_. So I just...stopped thinking.” He clears his throat, then rolls his eyes at himself. “Look, it’s not that big of a deal. I used to have panic attacks. That’s what Anjali called them. This is...sort of like that, but less theatrical. I’m sorry, I know I’m being weird.”

Neville shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He squeezes Draco’s fingers where they tangle with his own. “It’s alright, you’re not weird, it’s just. What happened today? You didn’t mention anything at dinner.”

Draco swallows against the familiar sick wash of anxiety and closes his eyes, groaning. “I didn’t want to tell you about it, because it’s only going to upset you.”

“Well, now I really want to know,” Neville says with a nervous little laugh that breaks off too quickly to pass for genuine. He takes a deep breath. “Tell me,” he says softly. “It’s obviously got _you_ upset. What happened?”

Draco presses a finger against the little divot between Neville’s eyebrows and smiles. “Don’t make that face,” he says. “You’ll wrinkle that way.”

Neville rolls his eyes and Draco laughs. It makes him feel a bit better to say something flip and shallow and get a reaction for it. But Neville doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t throw back any answering banter, so it looks like Draco will have to be honest some more.

“Fine,” Draco says, forcing it out. “Here it is: the Gallipot lost a sale today because the client saw me coming out of the back room and recognized me. He made a big scene and Golda had to shout him down, and some nasty things were said on both sides, but all of the nasty things he said were said to me, about me. Golda is very angry about the entire thing. She says she won’t fire me, but realistically, she’s going to have to eventually if this happens again, and it will.”

Draco stops to breathe and rubs a hand over his face. Neville catches it so that he holds both of Draco’s hands in his own.

“It’s been a while since I was called a murderer to my face,” Draco says after a moment, then hurries to continue before Neville can say whatever tragically sympathetic thing he’s opening his mouth to say. “Don’t, it’s fine. Or, I know it’s not fine, but I can handle it. I’m more worried about losing my job than anything else.”

“Golda knew who she was hiring,” Neville says. “I don’t think she would fire you because of one loud mouthed idiot. And whoever it was _is_ an idiot. Draco you’re not a murderer.”

Draco waves a hand in frustration. “Please, yes, okay--”

“You’re not going to get fired.”

“I hope not, but if it happens again...I might quit, I couldn’t do that to her, make her take a risk with her business for me.”

Neville snorts. “I don’t think anyone could make Golda Gooseberry do anything she didn’t want to do.”

That’s true, so Draco nods. “You’re right about that. Anyway, this is all.” He waves a hand again. “I don’t know, borrowing worry, I suppose. But it was fairly awful, and then, don’t get me wrong, dinner was great, but then you mentioned your birthday party. It’s a little risky, don’t you think? My being there could-- _will--_ be an issue. I can’t believe Lovegood would invite me, she has every right to hate my guts.”

Neville sighs. “Luna doesn’t hate anyone, as far as I know, and of course she invited you. She invited everyone’s...you know. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Significant...people.”

“I suppose I was surprised that you had already told her I was a...significant person.”

Neville shrugs. “I told her the next morning, of course.”

Draco shakes his head and stares down at where their hands are joined in Neville’s lap. Neville’s fingers make absent patterns on Draco’s curled palms.

“That’s...” Draco shakes his head again at the unbelievability of the simple fact that Neville Longbottom is a real person who _likes him_ and wants to _tell people that._ “Okay. But it’s _Potter’s_ birthday party too, so even considering the fact that she invited dates for everyone, and even considering the possibility that she could look past the bit in our shared history where she was a prisoner of war in my _cellar,_ I just can’t imagine that Harry Potter wants me at his birthday party.”

Neville laughs and dances his fingers up, wrapping two around each of Draco’s wrists, then lets go and walks them back down to Draco’s fingertips. He does this a lot, actually. He fidgets and touches things, touches _Draco,_ absent and unthinking but very, very thorough. Draco is quickly becoming accustomed to it, even comforted by it. He’ll have to talk to Anjali about whether that’s something to be afraid of. After all, what happens when he has to walk from one end of Hogsmeade to another or go to dinner in Muggle London or sit on his sofa, all without Neville Longbottom touching him?

“Luna doesn’t hold any ill will toward you. Harry will be fine,” Neville says. “He never stays long for these things anyway; unsurprisingly, he’s not the biggest fan of his own birthday, and things tend to get a little iffy once people notice him and realize what day it is.”

“So you and Potter have joint birthday parties _every year?”_ Draco feels vaguely nauseous at the prospect of having to do this annually. If he can manage not to fuck this whole thing up for a whole year, he’ll have to do this _again._ Lots of times, maybe.

“Not every year,” Neville says soothingly. “Just once when we were younger, and then for the last couple of years since I moved back. It’s always a,” he makes air quotes with his fingers before returning them to Draco’s hands, _“surprise_ that we both know about, because the first year just after the war, they really did manage to spring it on us. I had a panic attack and Harry accidentally hexed Seamus when he jumped out to yell surprise.”

“What a Gryffindor thing to do,” Draco drawls, unable to stop himself. “Jumping out at two people who very recently saw active combat in an actual warzone. Brilliant.”

“There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity, it’s true,” Neville says blandly, and Draco cracks a smile.

“You know, it gets me all hot and bothered when you let me malign the great house of Gryffindor,” Draco says, scooting closer.

“I don’t doubt it,” Neville murmurs, tugging Draco forward and back into his lap. “But before we--er. Do anything. I’d like to make a request.”

“Go on,” Draco prompts.

“Next time you’re this bothered by something, would you tell me before I blunder along like an idiot and start having sex with you while you’re actually miles away up there in your head?” Neville’s fingers come to rest at Draco’s forehead. “Or, tell me what to do. Something I can look out for...I don’t know. Anything?”

Draco leans into the touch. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “And yes, I’ll try to tell you about the things that...weigh on my mind. I can be better about talking and honesty and everything. As for things to look out for? I don’t...I don’t know.”

“If you think of anything, let me know,” Neville says softly. Easily. Sweetly. “You’re doing splendidly so far, with all the talking and honesty and everything. I’m very impressed.”

Draco rolls his eyes and hops to his feet. “Oh, stop it,” he says, attempting a cheery, flippant tone to shake off the seriousness. “Come on, take me to bed or lose me forever. I heard that in a muggle film on the television once, it’s a great line, don’t you think?”

Neville laughs and shakes his head at him. He stands up to hail Draco in close. “I suppose it’s a good motivator. Was it a good film?”

“Mmm,” Draco tilts his head back, pretending to think about it but really just enjoying being held and thinking, hysterically, of how big and delicious Neville’s arms are. “It was alright. I don’t understand fighter jets. But there was a beach scene that was...stimulating.”

“We’ll watch it sometime,” Neville says, then starts walking Draco toward his bedroom. “But I’d hate to lose you forever. Again. So let’s go to bed.”

Draco hangs on tight, arms around Neville’s neck, and laughs into the next kiss. He just barely remembers to gasp, “Leave the door open for the cats,” before Neville renders him utterly speechless with a well-placed nip just below his ear.

***

In the morning, Neville cooks them breakfast and they eat at the coffee table in the sitting room while the kittens chase a charmed stuffed mouse all over the place. Draco finds it scarily easy to move around Neville in the tiny kitchen, to make cups of coffee, to talk and laugh over their plates. He tries very, very hard not to think too much about any of it, or to compare it to how things happened last time they did this together. He tries, but he fails just a little.

“I could keep you locked up here all weekend as my plaything,” he says idly, spreading jam on a piece of toast. “It’s my turn, I would think.”

“Oh, really?” Neville gestures with his fork as he talks, but his free hand has drifted to Draco’s bare thigh. He’s been stroking absently there ever since they sat down. Now, he touches with a little more purpose, letting his fingers nudge at the hem of Draco’s shorts, teasing. “Are you inviting me to have a dirty weekend with you? Also, I did _not_ keep you locked in my flat.”

“Is it a dirty weekend when two people are _official?”_ Draco asks. He emphasizes the last word, dropping his voice a couple registers and wriggling his eyebrows meaningfully. “Also, you did too.”

Neville reaches over and pinches Draco’s thigh playfully. “Depends how dirty the weekend gets, I guess.” And then he wriggles _his_ eyebrows, and Draco nearly chokes on his coffee.

Draco pushes his plate away then judges Neville’s progress with his own at a glance. Satisfied that enough breakfast has been had, Draco  takes Neville’s fork away from him and tosses it in the general direction of the table before climbing into Neville’s lap. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“I was still eating my potatoes,” Neville says, in the most half-hearted protest Draco has ever heard.

“Eat me instead,” Draco purrs, dropping his voice comically low, playing it up and rolling his hips.

Neville barks a laugh then tips them both sideways, shoving Draco down on his back. “That’s a good idea,” he says, then leans down to lick and bite at Draco’s collarbone.

“I have the best ideas,” Draco hums. “Well. Lately.”

Neville laughs against his skin, then licks a delicate line across Draco’s left pectoral to his nipple. Draco clutches at Neville’s hair and arches into the heat and wetness of his mouth.

“What do you want?” Neville asks once he’s paid attention to both nipples, his lips and beard having rendered the pale skin around them a little red. He keeps teasing them with his fingers as he moves his mouth downward.

“I--” Draco wriggles, which nudges his cock, hard in his pants, against Neville’s chest. “Well.”

Neville chuckles, low and sexy, and hooks his fingers in the elastic before shucking Draco’s pants down around his knees. “Okay,” he says agreeably.

Draco’s head spins as Neville takes him in his mouth. The way he can go from oblivious to seductive to earnestly accommodating is so-- It’s a bit dorky, actually, Draco thinks, but also very appealing. Draco likes the surprise of it, and a part of him that he used to hate to acknowledge simply _glows_ at the care in it.

Neville’s hands are rough with callouses which scrape a little at the soft skin on the inside of Draco’s thighs. He moves his hands all over, sending goosebumps pebbling across Draco’s skin and making him shiver, then hooks them under Draco’s knees, spreading his legs a bit and then arranging them over his own shoulders. His mouth works over Draco’s cock, sucking him and then pulling off to lick. He uses one hand to jerk Draco off while his lips move lower, closing over first one then the other of his balls, sucking and licking, and Draco can hardly breathe, it’s so _good._ Neville makes lovely, hungry noises when he takes Draco’s cock back in his mouth and when Draco looks down, he sees that Neville’s eyes are nearly closed, heavy-lidded with satisfaction.

Draco digs his fingers into the sofa cushions and tries to hold still and let Neville drive this, but his hips can’t help but move, trying to get his cock deeper into that lush mouth. He moves his legs restlessly, bringing one up so that Neville’s beard rubs roughly against Draco’s thigh when his head moves. Draco presses his heel into Neville’s back as leverage, and finally they seem to find a way to move together just right. Neville’s lips gliding wetly down Draco’s shaft just as Draco undulates up, the rhythm just right, just perfect, and the grip of Neville’s fingers around Draco’s hips grounds him, keeps them in time.

“I’m--” Draco chokes. “I’m going to--”

Neville moans and nods and swallows Draco’s cock down. Draco can feel him almost choking on it before he pulls back up again with another blissful sound. Draco watches his face, his eyes shut tight in concentration, his lips red and spit-slick. Draco pants as his orgasm builds, as his balls tighten with it, and he makes an embarrassingly high-pitched sound just as it tips over, which causes Neville to open his eyes. He looks up at Draco with blown pupils and so much heated adoration that Draco gasps, shocked, as he comes.

It feels as though Neville pulls the orgasm right out of him with one last long suck, and then he visibly swallows before opening his mouth and catching the last drops on his lips and tongue, filthily gorgeous, before sucking Draco once more, gentling him through the aftershocks with his big, rough hands rubbing soothing circles up and down Draco’s thighs.

Draco works on catching his breath between a fit of giggles he can’t help, which seem to bubble up from the very bottom of his belly, below which everything else has gone wobbly and liquid. He halfheartedly tries to move his legs a bit, thinking to get them off Neville’s shoulders, but they’re shaking so badly he can’t.

Neville kisses his cock, his balls, the crease of his thigh, gently moving away to kiss up to Draco’s knee as it slides from his shoulder. He sits up slowly and settles Draco’s legs down at his own sides, his fingers softly, sweetly running over his shins and knees and up to his hips.

Draco stares up at him in wonder and says, “Wow.”

“Good?” Neville asks, wiping the corner of his own mouth with his thumb and then licking his lips.

The crazy thing is, Draco knows that Neville has know clue what that _looks_ like, which makes it even hotter.

“It was good,” Draco says, distracted by the swipe of Neville’s tongue across his lower lip. “Yes.”

Neville grins and falls forward, catching himself on his hands so as not to crush Draco under him, and then kisses him. Draco reaches up and pulls him down, wanting the weight, wanting to be pressed down into the cushions. He can taste himself in Neville’s mouth, and feel the hard line of Neville’s cock against his  groin. He hooks a leg around Neville’s and encourages him to rut down as Draco pushes up with his hips, hissing a bit at the rub against his own oversensitive cock.

“God,” Draco groans as they break apart for air while Neville rocks against him slowly. “You should let me ride you.”

“Fuck, yes, absolutely,” Neville replies roughly, teeth nipping at Draco’s jaw. “You really do have the best ideas.”

“Lately,” Draco qualifies.

“Mmm.”

Of course, that’s when the floo chimes with an incoming call.

“Whoever it is, I’ll talk to them later,” Draco murmurs, still holding Neville to him with one leg and a hand that’s drifted down to grip one arsecheek. “Where’s your wand, can you decline it?”

“I left it in the bedroom,” Neville groans, as Draco’s and guides him down for another slow thrust into the crease of Draco’s thigh.

The floo chimes again.

“Mine’s in the kitchen,” Draco says. “Wait, I have to-- if one of us doesn’t-- the call will connect.” Draco pushes at Neville’s shoulder. “You have to get off me--”

Neville makes a desperate sound and does, rolling to the side, but they’re all tangled up at the legs now, and Draco is still struggling up off the sofa when the floo chimes again.

“Fuck,” Draco cries, stumbling to his feet. “Come on, no time, get out of view at least, you’re half naked--”

“You _are_ naked,” Neville protests, but he manages to clumsily haul himself up and make for the kitchen behind Draco.

“Where’s my fucking _wand?”_ Draco shouts, frozen in the middle of the kitchen. “I can’t find it, it’s--”

The floo chimes and Neville snorts completely unhelpfully, and then they both freeze, Draco naked with both hands reaching out to start tossing the entire kitchen in search of his wand, and Neville with one hand covering a laugh, as Pansy Parkinson’s voice floats out of the fireplace.

“Hello? Draco?”

“Oh, thank god,” Draco sighs, sagging against the kitchen counter. “At least it’s not my _mother.”_

Pansy says, “I can hear you but I don’t see you. What the hell are you doing?”

“Pans,” Draco calls, pushing off the counter. “I can’t talk now, I’m--I’m indisposed.”

Neville laughs again, failing to muffle it well behind his hand.

Draco glares and mouths: _Shut! Up!_

Pansy is quiet.

“I’ll--” Draco clears his throat. “I’ll call you back in a bit. Just give me, uh.”

Neville holds up both hands fingers, spread.

“Ten?” Draco ventures.

Neville thinks and then flashes his hands twice, wiggling his fingers emphatically.

“Make that twenty minutes,” Draco calls.

“... _Sure,”_ Pansy says eventually, and no one needs to see her face to know she’s smirking. “Twenty minutes,” she says airily. “Talk to you then, bye now, mwah!”

The floo disconnects with a faint sound and Draco turns on Neville, wide eyed. “You! Are so not sneaky! I’m never going to hear the end of this, now.”

“Oh please,” Neville laughs. _“I’m indisposed?”_

“Well, I _am!”_

“Draco, that’s just another way of saying I’m arse-naked with my cock out!” Neville leans in, pressing him back against the counter. “I’m not very stealthy no, but you’re a _terrible_ liar.”

“I was a little distracted,” Draco says weakly, as Neville tips their hips together and laughs at him in that way that makes little crinkles form at the corners of his eyes.

“Your wand is in that cup of utensils there,” Neville says after a long moment spent smiling stupidly at each other. He reaches around to pluck it out from between a spoon and an egg turner before handing it to Draco.

Draco twirls it between his fingers and thinks for a moment, staring up at Neville from under his eyelashes in a way he hopes is seductive, and not extremely awkward-looking. Draco flicks his wand toward his bedroom door, summoning a tube of lube and catching it in his hand just as he mutters a mild little tripping jinx, then tosses his wand down on the counter so he can tackle Neville to the floor as he stumbles in surprise.

“Oof,” Neville groans when he lands. “You-- I’ve said it before, I’ll say it-- _oh._ I’ll say-- say it again--”

Draco looks up from running a lube-slick hand over Neville’s cock, having shoved his pants out of the way. “Yes?”

“You’re _so weird in bed,”_ Neville gasps. “Why-- _tighter--_ when your sofa is right over there, when your bedroom-- _yes_ \--”

“Maybe I wanted to see if you would let me fuck you on my kitchen floor,” Draco says offhandedly as he crawls up Neville’s body to get himself in position. He reaches behind to smear a little lube over himself to ease the way. He doesn’t need much in the way of preparation, as enthusiastically as they had fucked late the night before, and he doesn’t want a lot of it, anyway. He wants to feel it.

“Most people would just ask,” Neville says, but his voice disintegrates into a moan as Draco begins to sink down on him. His hands have gone to Draco’s hips and his fingers dig in for dear life. “Oh, _god.”_

“I like how thick your cock is,” Draco says. “God, I’m so...full.”

“Jesus,” Neville snaps. “Stop talking or this will be over in five more seconds.”

“I haven’t even moved yet,” Draco drawls, and then he does, rolling his hips. Neville groans under him, his stomach muscles tense and twitching under Draco’s palms. “So good,” Draco murmurs, circling his hips again.  

Neville just nods and squeezes at Draco’s hips again, his chest heaving as Draco teases him with little, undulating movements before planting his feet on the floor and beginning to work himself over in earnest. He lets his head tip back, knowing what he looks like as he does. He watches Neville through slitted eyes and can’t help but grin. Neville keeps having to pry his eyes open, lift his head off the floor to watch; then Draco moves just right and his eyes fall closed as his head falls back, and he pants and lets out perfect little grunts and moans. Draco’s getting hard again, his cock heavy against his belly, and he’s still all flushed from his last orgasm and the rush to try and ignore the floo.

“Gorgeous,” Neville says, opening his eyes again.

Draco works himself faster, a little harder, moving his hips restlessly until he finds the right angle, which he finally does, crying out.

“Will you kiss me?” Neville gasps, his hands reaching up, trying to touch more of Draco as he arches and thrusts his hips over and over.

Draco goes easily, instantly. How could he resist the desperation in Neville’s voice, the tremble in his hands as they move over the line of Draco’s body. Draco leans forward, knees to the ground, and plants his hands on Neville’s chest. One of his pinkies brushes the very edge of the tattoo that curls just there at the edge of Neville’s torso. He leans down and kisses Neville hard and sloppy, jerking his body down over and over, trying to make it hurt a little, trying to get the right angle and beginning to lose his breath and sweat with the effort.

“Draco,” Neville groans, and thrusts up to meet him on his next hard movement down.

Draco cries out and says, _“Yes.”_

Neville does it again, and reaches up to get one hand in Draco’s hair, knotting his fingers up in the strands and pulling just hard enough. Draco sobs with it, shuddering as sparks fly down his spine from the little, fleeting  jolts of pain. He laughs, joyous, when Neville releases him, falling forward into another kiss until Neville tugs again, separating them with the brief force of his hand. His cock drags against Neville’s belly as Draco rides him, and Neville scratches his short nails down Draco’s back then grips Draco’s arse with both hands, squeezing, spreading them further. His fingers press in and feel where they’re joined, and Neville groans into Draco’s mouth as he thrusts up hard and fast once, twice, again, before he stills, coming with a muffled shout.

“Good boy, that’s it,” Draco murmurs without thinking. Neville jerks beneath him and cries out again. Draco grins against his lips and pets his hair. “I know, baby, I know you like that.”

“You and your _talking,”_ Neville laughs helplessly, still twitching up into Draco. “God, I love it.”

Draco shudders and clutches at Neville’s face, angling him for a deep, sweet kiss. “I’m glad you like it,” Draco says when he pulls away.

 _“Love_ it,” Neville corrects.

His arms are still wrapped around Draco; he had held onto him tightly when he came. Draco doesn’t want to move, he wants to be held like that for a little longer—forever would be fine—but Neville is softening and slipping out, and so Draco slides up and lets him with a hiss of discomfort. He rolls to the side and lands on his back on the cool tile beside Neville with an _oof_.

Neville follows him immediately, rolling to his side and keeping them skin-to-skin. He turns Draco’s face with his hand and kisses him long and deep, tongue sweeping in and overwhelming him as his hand moves down to stroke Draco’s cock in time with the movements of their mouths. Draco gasps and moans into Neville’s mouth, rolls his body to the side so he can run is fingers over the prickle of Neville’s beard and then up into his hair, holding him close for more wet, lazy kisses. Neville’s resting his head on his own arm at first, but he moves up onto his elbow after a moment, rolls Draco onto his back again and pins him with his leg over Draco’s as he jerks him harder but not faster. His free hand rests at the top of Draco’s head, stroking gently at his hair.

Eventually, he tips his head down, their foreheads together, so he can kiss Draco and then pull away to speak to him in a low voice that goes straight to Draco’s cock.

“I could do this all day,” he murmurs. “Kiss you like this and touch you. Just touch you everywhere and look at you. _Look_ at you, you’re so bloody gorgeous.”

A kiss, short.

“You’re covered in beard burn. Does it hurt?”

Draco’s fingers slip down to the beard again. “No. Yes. I like it. It burns.”

A kiss, long.

“Your mouth is red,” Neville murmurs.

A kiss, a little bite to the raw skin.

“Fuck, I want you all the time, do you know that?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do.” Neville’s hand tightens and he speeds his strokes. “You know I want you, that I think about you _all the time.”_

_“God--”_

A kiss.

“Come for me again. I want to watch your face. I think about your face when I’m trying to sleep, when I’m working, when I’m with you and you aren’t looking at me, I--”

 _“Neville.”_ Draco shudders. He wants to beg him to shut up, stop saying things like that, but Neville just keeps going, talking worshipful nonsense for what feels like ages.

“Come on.” Neville breathes eventually, once Draco has started fucking mindlessly up into the grip of his hand, desperate to come. He nips at Draco’s jaw. “Come on, love, give it to me.”

 _Love,_ Draco thinks, and then he’s coming, whiting out with it, burning, dying, held safely in Neville's hands.

***

 _“Well, well, well,”_ Pansy drawls when Draco calls her back ten minutes late. “As I thought.”

Neville lifts a hand in awkward greeting. “Hullo.”

“I have company, as you can see,” Draco says, smirking. “Did you need something?”

“Lunch?” Pansy grins.

“Not today, obviously,” Draco says. “Dinner, Monday?”

Pansy nods and the grin becomes a smirk. “Good enough. Bring him.”

Neville starts beside him and says, “Oh?”

“Bye now, be good, boys!” Pansy waggles her fingers at them and disconnects the call.

“You’re fucked,” Draco says casually, then gets up and heads for the bathroom with Juliet and Thistle trailing his heels. “You coming?”

Neville remains on the sofa, flummoxed, for a bit, then follows him.

***

They both fit comfortably in the tub. Neville tries to get in first, but Draco hip-checks him out of the way and checks the temperature of the water. He pours in some of the bath potions his mother likes to send him, waves his wand to make the water hotter and fusses with the bubbles, then climbs in.

“Come here,” he says, motioning for Neville to join him.

“What--”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Get in the tub and lean here against me.”

“I’ll practically crush you--”

“You will _not,_ don’t be absurd.” Draco motions again. “You have this thing where you think I’m so much smaller than you, but I’m not. Come. Here.”

Neville rolls _his_ eyes in a passable impression of Draco, and climbs in. The tub is big, thanks to wizard space expanding the bathroom well beyond what would be expected for a flat as tiny as this. There’s enough room for Neville’s legs to bend comfortably at the knee, even with Draco already there.

Once Neville’s seated, Draco tugs him back against his own chest. “See? There. Perfect.”

“Alright, fine, you’re right about _everything,”_ Neville mutters. “As if that’s news.”

Draco laughs and bends his head down to kiss at Neville’s shoulder. “Glad we’re on the same page, there.”

They sit in silence for long moments. Draco leans his head back against the side of the tub and lets his legs fall open as far as the space allows, them stretches them out along Neville’s sides and hips. He brings his wet hands up and over Neville’s chest and arms, cupping water and letting it trickle down. After a while, Neville does relax, for the most part.

“I’ve never held anyone like this before,” Draco says, not really considering his words before saying them out loud. “No one ever thinks I can. Or that I’d want to.”

Neville tips his head back onto Dracos shoulder to look at him sideways. “You said you hadn’t...since we, you know.”

“I haven’t,” Draco says, uncomfortable admitting it again. “But before, I mean.”

“Oh?” Neville tips is face away, giving Draco the courtesy of letting him have a potentially embarrassing conversation without eye contact. “So, who was before me then? If you don’t mind talking about such things.”

“Will you be jealous?” Draco drawls, going for teasing but not quite getting it right. He hopes Neville _will_ be jealous, even though he absolutely shouldn’t be. He has nothing, really, to be jealous of.

“Probably,” Neville says after a beat. “But I won’t judge.”

“Oh, you might, a little,” Draco hedges, and sighs.

He shifts restlessly, and Neville catches his hand and draws it across himself, prompting Draco to wrap his arms around him more tightly.

“Try me,” Neville says.

“Well,” Draco says, focusing on the heat of the water, the delicious weight of Neville against him. “I told you, everyone I tried to date once I got back here was a complete sociopath.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that was true for very nearly everyone I ever...” Draco hesitates. After a moment, he clears his throat. “Look, I’m trying to think of the right euphemism, here. ‘Slept with’ is hardly accurate considering I never actually closed my eyes and went to sleep with any of them but for maybe one, by accident. ‘Hooked up’ is too simplistic. ‘Dated’ is completely wrong, I didn’t _date._ The fact is, I fucked a bunch of sociopaths who were at least complicit in mass murder, and then I had a handful of unsatisfactory and ill-advised one night stands, and then I accidentally _slept with, hooked up with,_ you.”

Neville shifts against him, the only indicator of a reaction to that, but one Draco can’t possibly interpret.

So, he continues. “Anjali says that...well, Anjali has a lot to say about it. Suffice to say that, before you, before that weekend in Salem, my...experiences had been limited and not wholly pleasant.”

Neville stills and turns his head. Draco sees that he looks _upset,_ perhaps even _angry,_ though he’s trying hard to school his expression.Draco shakes his head rapidly, tightening his arms around him.

“No, no—not. Not like _that,_ I’m—I’m fine! I was fine! No one _forced me,_ it was just...Look, being a pureblood who’s queer as a crooked knut isn’t _easy_. I know your family is liberal in these matters but you _know_ , don’t you, what that would have meant for me back then.”

Neville sighs, his chest rising and falling under Draco's hands. “No. I mean, _yes,_ I do know, of course. Don’t stop talking. Ignore me, please.”

Draco nudges him a bit, and they kiss, awkwardly from that angle, just briefly, before Draco tips his head back again and continues. “There was no _dating_ when we were at school, that’s for sure. My first _...assignation_ with another boy happened during the summer after sixth year when I was well and truly fucked in the head, and it was with Theodore _bloody_ Nott in an empty sitting room after a Death Eater meeting. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t _anything_. Stress relief. Pain relief. Whatever.”

While he talks, Draco feels Neville relax by degrees, but his hands have come up to grip Draco’s forearm tightly. Draco squeezes back with practically his entire body.

“I realized that summer that sex is a tool,” Draco says, and then corrects himself. “Anjali would say to rephrase that. I _was led to believe_ that sex is nothing more than a tool. My father caught us once, just before seventh year. I expected to be cursed. Thrown out. Tossed in the dungeons. Instead, he asked me to try and get information from Theo next time. They suspected his father was a traitor. A spy. He wasn’t, in the end, Snape was. _Too bad it never occurred to young Draco to seduce his professor,_ is what my father would have said had he not gone directly to prison.”

Draco rolls his eyes and pauses, clenching his jaw against the old familiar feeling of shame and anger, the rise of frustrated sadness in his throat. “Anyway, you get the idea. Of course, over that last year of the war, I did have sex with people other than Theo, but it was always _for_ something. To distract them or get them to listen to me. I needed to cover for how badly we were fucking up--me, my father, Pansy’s brother, whoever was relevant at the time. To get them to protect me later, if I needed it. Once or twice, it was o have something to hold over them or their parents. My father never quite grasped the irony of sending his poof son off to get the upper hand on some other bastard’s poor poof son by...You know.”

“Goddamnit,” Neville sighs. “I hate your father.”

“Well, who doesn’t?” Draco says, lips twisting into what he knows is an ugly smile. He forces it away and is glad Neville can’t see it. “I mean, it wasn’t all about him. Once I was back at school, I managed to cultivate a semi-regular thing with Theo, just to have something to _do_ that wasn’t completely terrifying. Then, for a solid year and then some _after_ the war, it was like...it was like I didn’t really exist. Didn’t _want_ to exist. So I didn’t even bother with sex, because I barely wanted to bother with anything. The day my sex drive came back it was honestly a shock. I’d...forgotten.”

Draco clears his throat. “Look, what I’m getting at is this--and please, don’t be completely appalled by what I’m about to say: You may have been the only _actual_ no strings attached sexual experience I have _ever_ had other than a few sad one nighters, and it was very good. So, I was...reluctant to overwrite it in my memory with one that was less good. Ugh, please can we stop talking about this?”

“Draco.”

Draco cringes. Neville sits up and turns, bracing an arm against the side of the tub, and looks down at him, all warm eyes and no horror or disgust, _again,_ and Draco really can’t believe it.

“It’s fine,” Neville says quietly, tucking a strand of damp hair behind Draco’s ear. Draco swallows hard. Neville’s fingers linger just there, at his jaw.

“What is it about you that makes me say things like this?” Draco wonders. “It took the bloody therapist months to get me to talk about anything other than how my day had gone.”

Neville laughs. “I don’t know. Sorry?”

“Oh, please,” Draco mutters.

Neville leans in and kisses him gently. “I’m sorry you went through any of it.”

“Thank you, but it’s alright.” Draco guides Neville back down into the water, then grabs his wand to heat it back up. The temperature change is soothing, sending up steam and wrapping them both up in warmth. “It wasn’t all bad,” he says. “Really, it wasn’t. Theo’s not a bad person, he was in the same boat as me, really. The others varied, but I was never hurt. Not in ways I didn’t want to be.”

“But none of them--” Neville cut himself short and shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“You can say whatever it is,” Draco says. “You won’t offend me.”

Though, of course, he does brace himself for whatever Neville will say next. And, of course, it surprises him.

“None of them cared about you,” Neville says, sad. “None of them knew you at all.”

Draco is silent for a long while, and Neville seems content to let him be. He just lays back against Draco’s chest, fingers trailing over Draco’s arm, then down Draco’s leg at his own side. He doesn’t add anything to what he’s said, he simply lets the words hang there, a statement of fact.

Draco hadn’t really thought about it much back then, though he’s thought about it since. Anjali had prompted him to consider whether being cared for, being known, was important to him. He’d kept mum on his answer, at least to her, because he knew she would be concerned if he told her: _I don’t think I can ever trust anyone to know me. I don’t think anyone will ever want to care about me. Perhaps it’s best not to think about it, lest I get my hopes up._

“I care about you,” Neville says finally, softly. “I want to know you. Is that...good?”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, unable to believe his own good luck. “Yes,” he manages to say in a somewhat steady voice. “Yes. I-- Thank you. And...same.”

Neville kisses Draco’s knuckles, and they fall quiet.

***

Monday night dinner is a disaster, in Draco’s opinion. Pansy takes one look at them, fresh off a weekend completely isolated in Draco’s flat, and orders herself a double vodka on the rocks before she says, “Oh, this will be _fun.”_

All Neville says later, when they’re sitting side by side on his sofa, surrounded by plants, in stunned silence is, “Women frighten me.”

Draco nods.

***

The weekend had been wonderful. Draco had been _thrilled_ to start the week formally introducing Neville and Pansy and having it go exceedingly well. Lazy, giggly sex afterward in Neville’s jungle of a sitting room had been perfect. Being sent off to his appointment with Anjali the next morning with a sweet kiss had been lovely.

But all of that can’t change everything else; can’t keep the outside world from intruding and messing things up for him.

Work at the Gallipot is tense. Golda doesn’t say anything, but Draco finds three order cancellations in the Tuesday post piled on his desk. One of them is relatively major.

“I’m quitting,” he says abruptly when he finds Golda out in the greenhouses late on Wednesday when a small crowd gathers out front, peering through the store front’s windows looking for a glimpse of the Death Eater at work.

She keeps working away at her pruning.

Draco speaks louder. “Golda. I quit!”

She doesn’t even look up, doesn’t so much as flinch. She can’t hear him, and Draco loses his nerve.

He loses his nerve until Friday morning, his stomach sick with anxiety over Neville’s birthday party ( _Harry Potter’s_ birthday party) that night. He decides on the walk to work that he has to do it today before he can talk himself out of it, before _anyone_ can talk him out of it.

He had met Neville on his lunch break the day before and while he hadn’t said explicitly that he planned to quit the Gallipot, it had been as though Neville could read it off the lines of Draco’s face.

“Don’t,” he’d said through a bite of sandwich, covering his mouth with his hand. “Draco, don’t do it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco had said primly, but he’d known, of course. It frightened him that Neville could just _tell._ Draco wished he’d never mentioned the cancelled orders over floo call the night before.

“At least talk to Anjali first,” Neville had said, and then Draco had snapped at him and ended their lunch date.

“My _therapist_ isn’t the boss of me,” Draco had said, and then, harsher, “and neither are _you.”_

Neville had jerked back, his eyes going hurt and worried. “I know that.”

“I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from dictating my therapy sessions, thank you,” Draco had been unable to stop himself from saying. He’d tossed down his napkin. “I didn’t tell you about them so you could throw them in my face.”

“I wasn’t,” Neville had tried to say. He had tried to say lots of things. But Draco had shaken his head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m going to be late getting back.”

It was a lie, of course, there were fifteen minutes left to his break. But he’d wanted to flee. He’d kissed Neville on the cheek with another whispered, “I’m sorry,” and left.

That night, Neville sent a single Scottish thistle and a note by owl: _It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love, N._

It had been sweet, and very forgiving. More than Draco deserved.

And so, on Friday morning, Draco decides that he will do this one thing he knows he needs to do, and then he’ll leave the Gallipot, go home and pull himself together, and go be the absolute best boyfriend he can be at Neville’s birthday party, and not fuck up yet another thing.

“ _GOLDA!”_ He shouts upon walking through the side door twenty minutes before opening.

Golda, bent down over an order form on the front counter, jerks up with a shout. “ _Fucking balls of a blast-ended--_ Boy, don’t scream!”

“Golda,” Draco says, clear and loud as he can. “I _quit.”_

Golda looks at him through narrowed eyes for all of two seconds before shrugging and looking back to her form. “No, you don’t.”

Draco blinks. “Yes, I do,” he says, though he’s lost a lot of his courage and, therefore, his volume. “I do, Golda.”

Golda looks up again. “I didn’t accept your resignation on Wednesday, and I do not accept it now. Go to work, and stop wasting my time.”

Draco’s mouth works silently, like a fish out of water, a creature he can certainly relate to, in this moment. “You...you heard that.”

Golda sighs and looks up again. “Yes, I heard it, and I deemed it a moment of bloody-minded stupidity which I would ignore. This is yet more of the same.”

“Golda, I can’t let you--”

“You don’t _let_ me anything, boy, I am seventy years older than you.” Golda slaps her hand on the counter. “This _business_ is three hundred years older than _me.”_

“Which is why it would be a disgusting shame if it went under because of me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Golda snorts. “I offered Severus Snape a job after the war before the last one, and of course he was too stubborn and too devoted to Albus to take it. _That_ turned out well. Idiot. Before that, my father managed to keep the Gallipot open despite having been ousted from polite circles for writing a series of essays in support of policies reminiscent of the early Grindelwald papers. You, child, are small potatoes.”

Draco sags against the wall. “Golda.”

“Go. To. Work,” she snaps again. “And don’t ever try this again, or I’ll let you walk out the door, and I’ll never think of you again, other than to call you _that fool_ in my mind.”

Draco stands there for a moment, dizzy and thwarted and so grateful he could fall to the ground. “Okay,” he says after a moment, licking his dry lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

Draco goes to work.

***

He’s surprised, later that night, when there is a knock at his door. He’s just settled Juliet and Thistle into the kitchen--they’re allowed to wander the entire room, now, though Draco has warded the space above the countertops to keep them from jumping up too high when he’s not at home.

Draco assumes it’s his neighbor Letitia, popping by to ask if he’s got an extra copy of the Prophet, but when he opens the door it’s Neville on the other side. Draco stands frozen for a moment, blinking and processing the fact that it’s him standing there and not Letitia. They were supposed to be meeting outside the pub.

“Hi,” Neville says, and he’s so handsome and so _tall,_ and sweet, with his hand hooked round the back of his neck doing that nervous thing he does, that Draco just falls forward into his arms. _“Hey,”_ Neville says, wrapping him up immediately and pressing his lips to the top of Draco’s head. “Hey, are you alright?”

 _“Yes,”_ Draco says vehemently, though it’s muffled against Neville’s chest. He steps even closer and tilts his head back, looking up at him. “I tried to quit my job.”

Neville sighs and rubs his back. Draco could lean into it like a cat.

“I thought you might,” Neville says. “Golda didn’t let you, though, did she?”

“No,” Draco replies, a little strangled through the thick feeling in his throat. “She said I was small potatoes.”

Neville laughs and leans down to kiss him, one hand resting gently against Draco’s cheek. When they part he says, “She’s smart. Not like us.”

 _I love you,_ Draco thinks, his heart clenching in his chest.

He laughs to cover and says, “I think she’ll beat the stupid out of me eventually.”

“If you don’t want to go to the party--”

Draco shakes his head. “Don’t, no, of course I’m going.”

Neville’s arm tightens around his waist. “We can _both_ skip it. It’s not even my birthday until Sunday, and I would be more than happy to spend tonight and the rest of this weekend holed up here with you and the kittens.”

“Tempting,” Draco drawls, and kisses Neville’s chin before slipping away and out of his arms. “But I can’t keep you from your own birthday party. Not even I’m that selfish. Besides, all your friends will just hate me more.”

“All my friends do not hate you.”

“Okay, all your friends minus, who, Lovegood?”

“Dean says you’re alright.”

Draco grabs a gift bag from his coffee table and rejoins Neville at the door. “The two of them are absolutely insane. They’re the two who should hate me _most._ Honestly, they need their heads checked.”

Neville just shakes his head and nods to the gift bag. “Is that mine?”

Draco scoffs. “No, of course not. This is _Potter’s._ You’ll get yours on your actual birthday and not a moment sooner.”

“You--” Neville blinks. “You got Harry a birthday gift?”

“What am I, a heathen? Of course I did, it’s good manners!” Draco rolls his eyes. “Now let’s _go,_ we can’t be late.”

Neville lets Draco drag him out the door. As they go, Draco tells himself that everything is fine--that everything will be fine--and tries to focus on the warm weight of Neville’s hand at his back, and not the fear that itches at him everywhere else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Find me on twitter @meansgirlwrites


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh there's a set number of chapters on this fic now…we're in the endgame now, babies!
> 
> Hey, thanks to everyone who has been commenting - I will reply to all of you soon, I promise! It gives me LIFE that you all are enjoying this. I know I've been gone for a bit and I'm sorry about that. I hope you're all still interested in this fic! I was working on a little spot of Sherlock fic for a while, plus a bunch of life stuff got in the way of writing time. But I'm back now, with this chapter for you and the next is nearly ready! There will probably be one more after that, plus an epilogue. These plans *may* change, but I'm thinking that's how long it'll take to wrap things up. Then again I thought this fic was only going to be 4 chapters so what do I even know? 
> 
> Thanks guys! Happy reading! <3

Neville keeps his hand glued to the small of Draco’s back after they arrive at the pub. It’s a big place in Diagon, near the Ministry. It’s an Auror haunt, which he knows is a contributing factor in Draco’s anxiety about being here. They arrive fashionably late, five minutes after the start time Luna had given Neville as one of the surprisees, but Harry of course hasn’t shown yet. 

“SURPRISE,” Seamus shouts in Neville’s ear as he yanks him into a bloke-y hug, slapping him enthusiastically on the back. 

Neville shoves him and rolls his eyes. “Oh, how did you ever keep it a secret,” he deadpans. Beside him, Draco is stock-still and stiff. Neville lets his hand slip around to squeeze his hip.

“Oh.” Seamus blinks. “Er. Right. Hi, Mal- Dra- Hello.”

Neville bites his tongue to fight off a mad giggling fit and says, “Sorry, right, you remember Draco, my boyfriend?”

Draco’s nervous tic throat clearing makes its first appearance of the night as he extends his hand to shake Seamus’. 

“Sure,” Seamus mutters. “Good. To see you.”

Mercifully, Dean materializes at his best friend’s side to rescue them all from awkwardness. Dean says, “Alright, Malfoy? How are the kitties?”

Draco stammers out a stiff hello. Neville squeezes him again, reassuring. 

“They’re good,” Draco says. “Thank you for asking.”

“Good to hear,” Dean says, then he slaps Draco on the back, repeats the action on Neville, and yanks Seamus by the arm. “We’re going to for another round. What’ll you have? Luna’s got tables at the back. Look for balloons.”

“A pint is fine, you know what I like,” Neville replies. He turns to Draco. “Firewhiskey?”

Draco nods. He looks a bit pale, already overwhelmed.

“Firewhiskey, please, lads, thanks,” Neville says, then leads Draco away. He leans down to speak close to his ear. “It’s alright, I promise. And if you want to leave, we can.”

“I’m not going to make you leave your party,” Draco insists. 

Neville kisses him quickly on the temple and keeps his arm slung around him as they make their way toward the tables at the back of the pub. A cloud of balloons in Gryffindor colors, as is tradition, float over the tables. Luna presides over the group gathered there—  a mix of old classmates, former and current coworkers, and their significant others. When she catches sight of the two of them her face brightens and she waves, excusing herself from a conversation with Neville’s old lab partner from his first year of graduate studies. 

“Happy birthday!” She cries, throwing her arms around Neville’s neck and smacking a kiss to his cheek. She steps away and does the same to Draco, whose eyes go wide, his arms trapped at his sides. His cheeks flush in the blink of an eye, and when Luna pulls away he blinks at her. “It’s good to see you, Draco,” Luna says. “I’m so pleased you could make it.”

Luna is being genuine; Neville’s pretty sure she couldn’t be fake if she tried, not that she would. It just doesn’t occur to her. He knows Draco was raised to question the motives of every single person who so much as glances at him, and that it’s a skill that actually works for Draco sometimes, but he knows without a doubt that Luna will be the safest person for Draco to be around this evening, at least until Pansy Parkinson shows up—  and Draco doesn’t know that she will be showing up, because Neville asked her privately, and because they weren’t sure if she could make it until the last minute. 

For now, Neville chivvies them into a corner at the far end of the table and spares Draco the pleasantries as he quickly says hello to everyone gathered around the table. While he’s doing that, Seamus and Dean arrive with trays of drinks and Neville grabs his and Draco’s, then is handed one for Luna as well before he heads back over. 

“Well of course current methods of wrackspurt retrieval are less than ideal,” Luna is saying. “The poor dears get badly shaken up in the collection process, so who can blame them for evolving to recognize spectrespecs and camouflage themselves to avoid capture.”

“Oh, sure,” Draco says, nodding earnestly. He’s not playing along with her like some people do. He’s really agreeing. Neville pauses to eavesdrop for a moment. “You know, there were studies in the eighties about cat owners avoiding wrackspurt infestation completely even while neighbors who kept other types of pets experienced major outbreaks and resultant attention problems.”

“Exactly!” Luna smacks her hands excitedly against the table top. “Feline-based detection and management is _far_ more sensible. Wrackspurts don’t mind cats a bit! And coupled with safer collection practices—”

“I’d be interested in seeing your prototype,” Draco says. “I might have thoughts for your potion delivery system, and a more stable sedative for them.”

“That would be _lovely_ ,” Luna says, reaching out to place a hand over Draco’s on the table. “Thank you!”

Neville can’t help but grin at them both when he finally steps forward to set down the drinks and kick out a chair beside Draco and across from Luna. 

“No,” Draco says to Luna. “Thank you for remembering my interest in potions. I...I have hopes for continuing my education with them at some point.”

“No one could forget that you were good at Potions,” Neville says. “No more than they could forget how horribly hopeless I was.”

“You didn’t have summer tutoring from your professor like I did,” Draco says generously. 

“Christ, you privileged little shit,” Neville laughs. “Of course.”

“He was my godfather,” Draco says with a shrug. “Sorry.”

Neville shakes his head and Draco lets the slyest of grins slip. 

“The real question,” Luna says, leaning across the table, “is this: was he nice to you?”

Draco snorts. “Fuck no, not during the summer. Around you Gryfifndors, _of course he was,_ but come summer I may as well have been this one.” Draco tilts his head at Neville and grimaces. “Once he shouted at me so spectacularly that one of the peacocks startled outside just as father was arriving home, and the stupid bird got all tangled in his hair—”

Neville can’t help it, he loses it, dropping his head into his arms on the table to hide his face, which he knows looks absolutely ridiculous when he laughs this hard. But, god, the mental image is so perfect. 

“Oh dear,” Luna giggles. “Was the peacock alright?”

Draco laughs at that and Neville feels a hand on his knee. He straightens, wiping tears from his eyes, and sets his hand on top of Draco’s. 

“The peacock, I don’t know,” Draco says. “They’re pretty, but really awful creatures, you know. Mummy likes them, Merlin knows why.”

Neville bites his lip to keep from cracking a particularly snide joke at Lucius Malfoy’s expense then, but Draco catches his eye and snorts. 

“Yes, yes,” Draco murmurs. “Very funny.”

“You’re nothing like a peacock, though,” Luna says. She rests her chin in her hand and considers Draco with her wide, dreamy eyes. “What is your patronus, Draco?”

“Oh.” Draco stiffens slightly. “Well, I’ve never produced one.”

“Really?” Luna says this without disbelief, simply asking, no judgment. 

“I couldn’t,” Draco says. “Not when I was Marked.”

Neville fights a wince. Draco will think he’s doing it because of him, but he’s kicking himself mentally. That sort of thing hadn’t occurred to him. He always wonders if he can ask Draco things about the war, about being a Death Eater, but he’s never sure what he would even want to know, and he wouldn’t want to make Draco uncomfortable. But a wizard marked by Dark magic and in the midst of the nightmare of a war would find casting a patronus difficult to learn. Neville supposes Draco wouldn’t have had a reason to try, once it was all over and the connection to Voldemort was severed. 

“You should try, some time,” Luna says. “Just to see. I’m always interested in what creatures are produced by my friends. Sometimes it makes sense, you know, like Harry’s. But others don’t, like Neville’s.”

“It’s a manta ray,” Neville says. “Who knows why.”

“I wonder if your patronus would be a bird that fits you,” Luna says to Draco. “An ibis, maybe.”

Draco clears his throat. “Well, maybe Neville will show me how to do it.”

“That’s not all he’ll show you, I’m sure,” a voice behind them jokes. 

Neville turns, grinning, as Draco’s head whips around. “Pans?”

“Evening, loser,” she says affectionately, dropping down into the seat beside Draco. “How’s the soiree so far?”

“We’ve only been here for a drink so far,” Neville tells her while Draco gapes in dismay. “Thanks for coming.”

“Well,” she says, “I like you well enough. Happy birthday, by the way.” She passes an envelope his way, and Neville takes it. “Nothing special,” Pansy says. “Open it later.” She ruffles Draco’s hair and he smacks her away. “And of course I couldn’t leave this one in a sea of Gryffindors all by himself lest he embarrass our House.”

“What.” Draco looks between the two of them. “What?”

“I invited her,” Neville says, while Pansy reaches across the table to shake Luna’s hand. “Thought it might help. Besides, I like her.”

“You’re terrified of her,” Draco whispers. “You’re a madman.”

“Maybe,” Neville replies with a smile. “Feel better, though?”

“You’re too good for me,” Draco says. “But yes, very.”

“Come on, let’s go get some more drinks, and one for Pansy.”

Draco nods, and Neville leans down to tell the women they’ll be back with drinks. 

“Yes, yes,” Pansy says breezily. “Draco knows what I’ll have. Don’t you pay, it’s your birthday. Make him do it. Luna and I will be fine without you both, thank you.”

Neville snorts and says, “Okay,” and he keeps his hand on Draco’s back on the way over to the bar. 

 

***

 

They wait side by side, elbows resting on the bar in opposite positions, Neville facing the bar, ready to flag down the bartender, while Draco leans back against it and makes Neville laugh by muttering sharp-tongued observations about strangers they can see from their position. 

“You’re terrible,” Neville says, in a tone of voice that he knows betrays the fact that he doesn’t mind at all.

“That witch’s date is terrible,” Draco shoots back, grinning. “I’m _funny._ Unlike him, look, he’s laughing at his own jokes! She’s eyeing up— well, she’s staring at your backside, actually.” He kicks Neville’s ankle. “Don’t _look!”_

“You told me to look!” Neville laughs. “Besides, I’m sure she’s not. Maybe she’s looking at you.”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “Women don’t look at me, thank god. I’m not any heterosexual girl’s _type,_ I assure you. Look at me, I’m practically lady-sized.”

“Don’t be so sexist.”

“It’s not sexist!” Draco rolls his eyes, but the smile never leaves his face. “Alright, maybe it is. Someone once told me I have hands like a girl’s, though. I’m a _waif,_ you see.”

“You’re full of shit,” Neville says, nudging their shoulders together. “And always telling me that you’re in fact _not_ tiny. So which is it?” 

Draco’s smile goes sly, and he tilts his head back and to the side, catching Neville’s eyes. “I do envy witches, though. The shoes, for starters. Fantastic. I tried Pansy’s on once, back when my feet were the same size as hers.”

Neville knows he looks like a gormless idiot in that moment, mouth falling open, eyes dropping to Draco’s feet, his brain shorting out at the thought of those already long, slender legs situated atop a pair of the silly high heels Pansy and several other classmates favored around fifth year. Most girls had given up on tottering over cobblestone and slippery marble on the things after half a term. _Draco_ had tried them _on._

Draco laughs very softly and his eyes go lidded. His lips curl with a smirk. “The strangest thing happened,” Draco says very, very quietly. “I put them on, and I got...you know...har—”  

“What can I get you boys?”

Neville’s elbow slips off the bar but he recovers, eyes snapping away from where they’ve strayed to Draco’s mouth, and he stutters out their drinks order to the barkeep while Draco laughs at him. 

It’s while they’re waiting for the drinks to arrive that the witch shows up. Not the one Draco had been observing, but a witch all the same. Neville doesn’t know her, he doesn’t think, but when she approaches the bar and stands on Neville’s other side, she smiles up at him in a knowing way that gives him pause.  He wracks his brain for a name to match with the face, but comes up empty. 

She’s petite with auburn curls, which she sweeps over her shoulder as she says, “Well, hello there.”

Neville blinks and says, “Er, hello?”

Beside him, Draco snorts quietly enough that Neville hears it, but he doesn’t think the witch does. 

“I’m Amy,” she says. “Of course, I know who you are.”

_Oh, no._

“Oh!” Neville blurts, and then freezes, unable to form the next words. “Ah...”

“Is it true you’re taking the Herbology post at Hogwarts?” Amy asks, flipping her hair again, this time over the other shoulder. “Only, I read it in Witch W—”

“Sorry,” Neville blurts. “You must have me confused with someone—”  

“He doesn’t date girls,” Draco cuts in, leaning in a bit closer. “Bye, now.”

Amy blinks at him. “Wh-what?”

“It’s very rude to approach a person assuming you know them when all you’ve really done is read four inches of gossip in the Prophet, or worse, Witch Weekly,” Draco drawls. 

“Oh,” Amy flushes. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Neville says quickly, kicking at Draco’s ankle. “He’s right, though. I don’t date girls.”

“Oh,” Amy says again. “I—”   She stops abruptly, seeming to really focus on Draco for the first time since she slid up next to Neville at the bar. _“Oh.”_

Draco’s face pales, and he straightens from his insouciant pose against the bar. “Listen—”  

_“You’re—”_

“Drinks up, boys,” the bartender chirps. 

Neville’s body relaxes abruptly; he hadn’t even realized how tightly wound he had become, braced for what would happen now that Amy seemed to be recognizing the man who had moments ago been just a _bit_ rude to her. 

“Pay the man,” Neville says to Draco. To Amy, he says, “Sorry, he was just trying to be funny and save me— I’m very awkward, you see. I hope you have a good night.”

Neville shoves two glasses toward Draco and takes the other two. 

“Move,” he whispers. “Just go.”

As they walk away Neville hears Amy mutter something under her breath, but he’s glad he can’t make it out. 

“I’m an idiot,” Draco bites out as they weave their way back to the balloon-topped table. “Just _kill_ me, I’m such an _idiot.”_

“Well it wasn’t very smart, no. Or very nice,” Neville says, more harshly than he intends. He’s annoyed, yes, but not angry. “It’s alright,” he says, trying for a calmer tone. “Just keep walking.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco says quickly. “I shouldn’t have been such a dick.”

“I’m not upset,” Neville insists.

They arrive at the table, which is now crowded with Dean, Seamus, Lee Jordan, and a couple of people Neville recognizes as Harry’s coworkers. Aurors. Dean looks up and catches Neville’s eye. He nods and waves them over. Pansy has saved their seats. 

“Happy birthday, mate,” Lee says, reaching across to shake Neville’s hand. He nods at Draco, clearly having been briefed by someone. “Evening, Malfoy.”

“Hello....there,” Draco says.

Neville presses their knees together under the table and says, “Lee Jordan.”

“Right, of course,” Draco murmurs. “Sorry.”

Lee laughs. “Hey, s’alright, the voice is more the thing people remember with me.”

“Of course,” Draco says again. 

Neville has no idea what to do to make this entire thing less awkward, but Luna clearly does, because she leans forward and draws Draco and Pansy into a discussion about something Neville can’t hear well enough to discern, and Neville himself is immediately drawn into the usual Quidditch talk. 

Things are okay from there for a while. Neville keeps his leg up against Draco’s, and eventually Draco’s hand drifts down absently to rest on Neville’s knee. Neville doesn’t think twice before covering it with his own like he had before, threading his fingers between Draco’s without looking. 

Lee notices, as does Seamus, who doesn’t school his expression as well as the others. Dean elbows him in the ribs, and Seamus trips his way back into the topic of sport. 

The Weasleys arrive fashionably late, with no Harry in sight. 

“He’s doing paperwork, the tosser,” Ron says as they all gather in. Greetings go around the table, and with Ron’s arrival on Neville’s other side, the group of miscellaneous Aurors edges in closer. 

Draco’s hand spasms a bit in Neville’s grasp. Neville leans away from the conversation and says close to Draco’s ear, “You okay?”

“Aurors unnerve me,” Draco whispers back. “It’s positively Pavlovian. I see the slightest hint of MLE in a person and immediately feel as though I should be rushing to hide something.”

“They’re off duty, of course,” Neville says, gently teasing. “Even if you’ve a Dark talisman in your pocket, I doubt any of them are readying themselves for a raid on your person.”

“Is this dirty talk?” Draco shoots back, and Neville laughs. 

“If you want,” Neville says, running his finger just a couple of inches up the inseam of Draco’s trousers. Draco smacks his hand away with a scandalized gasp. 

 _“Professor Longbottom,”_ he whispers, then raises his voice. “Can I get more drinks for anyone? Neville’s empty, and we can’t have the birthday boy sitting drinkless.”

“You don’t have to, you already—”  

Draco cuts him off, standing up and then leaning down to speak quietly in Neville’s ear. “I’m off for some breathing room, and if I pay for some booze it might ingratiate me, so stop being such a Hufflepuff.”

“I heard that,” Pansy says, sticking her face close to them. “Watch it, I married into that life. I’ll go with you,” she says to Draco. “You need a nanny.”

“Bitch,” Draco mutters. 

“Slag,” Pansy snipes. 

They head off, and Neville watches them go, shaking his head. 

“Oi,” says one of the Auror group. “Where’s Potter, then?”

“Like I said,” Ron replies, holding up his hands. “Paperwork.”

“He’s not going to like that lot being here, is he?” It’s another of the Aurors, but the one who spoke first nods along. 

“Harry knows Draco’s here,” Hermione chimes in from where she sits across from Ron. “No need to start trouble, Alcorn.”

Auror Alcorn, first name unknown, wrinkles her nose. “If anyone’s going to start trouble, I’d think the Death Eater would be suspect number one, don’t you, _Granger?”_

Hermione looks across at Neville and purses her lips, then shoots him a quick wink before turning to Alcorn. “The Death Eater is buying another round for the table. Have you done so yet tonight? No? Then I suggest you ask him and his companion what they’d like next round and get out your wallet. Or can’t you afford it on a trainee’s salary?”

A chorus of _Oh’s_ and _Ho ho’s_ rise up around the table, and Ron blinks at his wife like he’s never seen her before. 

Neville mouths, _thank you,_ to her across the table, then leans into Ron and says, “She’s so feisty these days.”

Ron startles and turns to look at Neville, cheeks going bright red in an instant. “Well, it’s— She’s— They say the hormones— Oh, fuck, I’m not meant to tell.”

Neville turns and observes Hermione, now leaned on Lee’s shoulder and arguing _Quidditch_ of all things _,_ something Neville knows she could care less about, but she seems to be having a grand time arguing for the sake of it. She’s holding a fizzy clear drink in her hand. A plain soda. _Oh!_ He whips around to face Ron, who looks vaguely nauseous over having spilled the beans. 

“Mate,” Neville says as quietly as he can even as his chest fills with a bubbling sensation of joy. “That’s _amazing,_ congratulations.”

“Aw, thanks, Nev, really. Of course Harry knows, and Gin—”

“Hey!” Someone shouts. “Potter’s here! Talking to... _oh.”_

Hermione stands and says, “Neville, Ron.”

Neville turns in his seat. It’s hard to see from here, but he can easily make out Harry’s messy head of dark hair, and standing just in front of him but facing away is Draco, who of course drew Neville’s eye in the first place. Pansy is looking between Draco and Harry, though the two aren’t even facing each other, and her hand seems to be in a vice grip around Draco’s upper arm. The three of them all seem to be engaged in conversation with...Amy. The witch from earlier. She has been joined by three large, angry-looking men. 

“Shit,” Neville says. 

At the same time Ron stands and says, “What the—”  

“Come on,” Neville mutters, pushing away from the table. “This doesn’t look right.”

“Sure doesn’t,” Ron replies, and the two of them extricate themselves from the table. 

Neville focuses on weaving through people and tables and not tripping over his own feet. He tries to keep an eye on the scene by the bar. Pansy is trying to tug Draco away. He shakes his head. Harry leans forward and says something to Draco. Draco twitches in his direction, head turning enough that Neville can see his face sneering toward Harry for a brief moment, before Draco turns back to Amy and her friends. 

“These guys,” Ron groans from just behind Neville. “I recognize them. Bloody New Magic Society arseholes. They’re against the idea that a Dark marked wizard can be reformed, among other stupid nonsense. This could get bad.”

Neville and Ron get close enough to clearly hear the heated exchange of words. 

One of the men stood beside Amy says, “How many times do you need to be taken down a peg before you and your lot _get it?”_

“And that’s supposed to mean _what,_ exactly?” Draco drawls, tossing his head. 

“You know exactly what it means,” Amy snaps. “From what I hear you’ve had your face bloodied by concerned citizens before. Care to try it again, see if the message sinks through?”

Neville blinks at that but sets it aside for the time being. He draws up next to the group and gets Pansy’s attention with a hand on her shoulder. “Step back here,” he murmurs. “Nasty lot, these guys. Your girls don’t want you caught in the middle of a duel tonight.”

Pansy looks ready to argue for a moment, but she nods and releases Draco’s arm, letting Neville take her place. She doesn’t go far, but she does let Neville block her from view. While that exchange took place, Ron had begun whispering to Harry, their faces turned away from the scene. Neville realizes that Harry’s keeping his face out of view of Amy and her friends. 

“What,” one of the large men taunts. “Nothing to say to that?”

Neville glances at Draco and registers genuine fear on his face before it smooths out. Neville tugs at him. “Draco, come on. Walk away.”

“Merlin knows what you’ve done to this one,” another of the men sneers. “Imperius?”

Neville snaps his attention away from Draco and to the knot of jeering _arseholes._ “Watch yourself, mate,” he bites out. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I was four years ahead of you at Hogwarts,” the man replies. “Ravenclaw. Everyone saw what a little shit he was to you, to everyone, why bother defending him?”

“Or _her,”_ Amy adds, jutting her chin to indicate Pansy. “Everyone knows her brother’s rotting away in Azkaban, not to mention how she sided with the Dark Lord in the final battle.”

“Bitch, do you _really_ want to test me?” Pansy hisses over Neville’s shoulder.

“She wanted to live,” Draco is saying quietly. “She wanted her classmates, who were _children,_ to live through it.”

“What about the ones who didn’t then, hm? Because of people like _you.”_

“That’s enough,” Harry says loudly, stepping around Draco.

Neville stares at him, wide-eyed, over Draco’s head. Amy gasps audibly. When Neville turns back, she and the men flanking her have frozen on the spot. 

“This is a pub, not a courtroom,” Harry says firmly. “You’re ruining my friend’s birthday party.”

Neville rolls his eyes but keeps quiet, though he does slide his hand down Draco’s arm to take his hand. Draco doesn’t squeeze back or look at him, and his body stays tense. 

“We were just—” Amy stutters. “That is, I—”  

“I know what you were doing,” Harry says grimly, “and it’s enough. I’m off duty, but I’ve several friends in the back of the pub who would happily arrest you for harassment and hate speech.”

 _“Hate speech,”_ one of the men squawks. “You can’t hate speech a bloody Death Eater!”

Harry flicks his eyes to Draco for a split second, then says steadily, “I don’t see any Death Eaters in this pub.”

Draco’s hand goes limp in Neville’s grasp. His body seems to want to sag in shock for just a moment as he stares at Harry in wide-eyed shock.

It’s then that a short, balding man in flamboyant robes materializes in their midst. “Mister Potter! Lovely to see you again,” he says with exaggerated amiability, as he shakes Harry’s hand with vigor. “Everything alright over here? I trust all is well?”

“I don’t know, Carrigan,” Harry says. He makes eye contact with Draco and raises an eyebrow. Draco shakes his head. Harry turns back to the man. “I suppose it’s alright. Seems there was a misunderstanding. My friends and I will just head back to our table.”

Carrigan looks between their little group and Amy’s, a displeased wrinkle bisecting his forehead. “Mister Potter, I’ll have you know that we would never condone any sort of disruptive behavior on these premises, particularly not such behavior that would discomfit a regular patron of this establishment, not to mention a well-respected auror, and indeed, the savior of the—”  

“Thanks, Carrigan,” Harry says cheerfully. “It’s really fine. All handled. We’re just going to head back to our table.”

“Right, right,” Carrigan says, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand again. “And a happy birthday to you, Mister Potter. And oh! To you, Mister Longbottom, of course.”

Neville’s hand is shook, and then Ron’s and Draco’s, and then Pansy extends her hand like she’s the Queen and Carrigan _kisses_ it, and then they all finally make their way back to the table. 

Once there, Draco sits and seems unable to make eye contact with anyone as Harry is greeted with shouts and slaps on the back before he settles in beside Hermione. Neville watches Draco’s profile with his breath held, and on Draco’s other side Pansy appears to do the same. Finally, after long moments, Draco looks up and directly at Harry, who is already sipping from a full pint and listening to something Hermione is saying. 

“That was very good of you,” Draco blurts loudly. 

Harry looks over at him, eyes wide with surprise. “No, it—”  

“Thank you,” Draco says deliberately, and then shoves the gift bag he’d brought with him across the table, nearly upsetting several drinks as he does. “Happy birthday. This is for you.”

Harry blinks at the bag and then at Draco. “Er—”  

 _“Just take it, Potter,_ Jesus _,”_ Draco hisses.

Harry does, gingerly, while their friends close enough to have witnessed this exchange look on in silence and, in some cases, horror. 

Neville doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“It’s a very nice firewhiskey,” Draco says, then rambles on. “I don’t even know if you drink whiskey, but you can keep it around for company if you don’t. It’s the polite sort of thing you get someone you don’t know very well and don’t particularly like, when you’re trying to keep someone else happy by giving it, as a gesture of good will. Next time I’ll choose something more personal. If you’ll excuse me, I need some air.” 

With that, he shoves back from the table, stands, and is gone. 

“I don’t remember him being so easily flustered,” Ron says blandly while Harry stares down at his gift. 

“Hippogriffs,” Hermione mutters darkly. 

“You didn’t know him very well,” Pansy retorts, rolling her eyes. “He’s a disaster. Also, Granger, have you ever been chased by an angry albino peacock? He was _three._ He was _traumatized._ It ruined winged creatures for him. It _did.”_

Neville watches Draco go, at a loss.

 

***

 

Neville and Pansy have a brief exchange about who should go after him. In the end, Pansy insists that Neville _must_ go, or Draco will do something stupid like go home and then try to break up with him, so Neville goes.

Draco hasn’t gone home, only a small distance down the block. He stands with his back leaning against the corner of the pub. He’s got one foot propped up behind him and he’s smoking a cigarette.

“I haven’t seen you smoke since that first night in Salem,” Neville says quietly once he’s drawn up beside him. 

“Begged one off a passing witch,” Draco says. “She didn’t recognize me, I don’t think, so it’s probably not poisoned.”

Neville sighs and copies Draco’s pose, leaning up next to him so they’re close enough that they’re elbows brush. “Give us a drag,” Neville says, and holds out two fingers for the cigarette, which Draco hands over. Neville takes his time with it, then stalls by examining its burning end for a moment before handing it back. He exhales a weak stream of smoke and enjoys a brief rush of light-headedness. “What did she mean, when she said you got your face bloodied?”

Draco smokes and shrugs, then passes it over to Neville again before he answers. “I...may have caught a jinx to the legs and introduced my nose to the concrete in Diagon some weeks back.”

“When was this?”

Draco winces as he takes his turn with the cigarette. “The day of our first date. Sorry.”

Neville processes this as he smokes again. He says, “This has one more drag left in it, I’d say. Take it.” Draco takes it. Neville watches him smoke it down to filter and then banish it with a flick of his fingers, showy. He takes Draco’s hand in his and stares out into the street. Across the way is a little dance club. A small knot of witches congregate outside in their short, sparkly robes, shouting and laughing at each other as a thumping bass pours out of the door each time it opens. 

After a while, Draco tries to pull his hand away. Neville doesn’t let him. 

“Say something,” Draco pleads. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Neville asks, turning his head to look at Draco, who is pale in the evening light, miserable-looking from the top of his head down to his boots. “You could have told me.”

“I couldn’t have,” Draco says weakly. “Not if I wanted to enjoy that night, and I so badly wanted to. I was so...I felt...That morning I was walking on air, you know, just utterly carefree and stupid. Careless. I wasn’t paying attention. I forgot who I was, and I waltzed about Diagon Alley with my face visible to all and sundry, and I paid the price. I didn’t want you to know about that, or think about it when we were supposed to be doing something fun. Something normal.”

Neville groans and turns his body, stepping so that his feet bracket Draco’s while his free arm props him up against the wall. Their chests touch, and Draco lets him lace their fingers together. 

“You can always be honest with me,” Neville says, then kisses him very quickly. “If you don’t want me to make a big deal of it, just say so and I’ll shut up about it.”

“If I told you I got hexed and broke my face open on the kerb, you would certainly _never_ have shut up about it,” Draco gripes, but he does tilt his face up for another brief, chaste kiss. 

“I promise that from now on if you tell me not to worry I’ll...try not to. I’ll be normal about it. Harassed at work? Must be Wednesday. Flat gets vandalized? Seems fine— Though, I _am_ glad you let me have Dean file a report, now that you’re mentioning this other bit. Look, I’m being very matter-of-fact, _not_ harping on it, but was that incident the only outright assault, or have there been others?”

Draco winces. “There were others, but not for a long time. Mostly at bars. People get bold when they’ve been drinking. Early on, the rare occasions when I would go somewhere with Mother could get...tense. We’re more recognizable together. But it’s died down in the last year. I swear, it really has.”

Neville’s heart feels like it’s being squeezed. “Draco, even if it hadn’t, I—” He shakes his head. “I know you don’t believe me, but I’d still want this. I’d still want you.”

“Very foolish,” Draco says, his voice thick. “But sweet.”

“Do you want to go home? Yours or mine? Muggle London? Anywhere?”

“No,” Draco replies softly. “No, no— Come on, I gave Harry Potter a birthday present tonight. The worst is basically over.”

Some of the tension bleeds away. Neville’s chest feels freer. “You’ve been exceedingly brave,” Neville teases. “Just breathe through the rest, love, and duck behind me or Pansy if anyone gets shirty with you, alright?”

Draco’s eyes are wide. He clears his throat in his reflexive, anxious way. “Alright.”

“Though I should tell you,” Neville says as they head toward the door to the pub. “Hermione Granger verbally slapped an Auror for mouthing off about you. You missed it, but it was great.”

 _“Granger_ did?” Draco shakes his head in wonder. “She _physically_ slapped me in the face once, you know.”

“Oh,” Neville laughs. “I _know.”_

“Christ,” Draco mutters. “My life is strange.”

Neville holds the door open for him. “Mine, too,” he says. “Never gets boring, at least.”

“Well.” Draco smiles. “Yes, there is that.”

When Draco steps through the doorway ahead of him, Neville makes sure to press his hand to the curve of his back again. He intends to keep it there for the rest of the night. 

 

***

 

They’re both drunk when they get back to Draco’s flat. Draco lets the kittens out and Neville helps feed them. They stumble around each other, spill kibble on the floor, and nearly end up tripped by Juliet as she scrambles to gobble up the extra. 

While the cats are occupied, Draco yanks Neville down onto the sofa, where they attempt valiantly to have sex for several minutes before giving up and lying sprawled all over each other. 

“This is—” Draco blows some of Neville’s hair out of his mouth. “I’ve never had foreplay go this badly before.”

“I’ve had _much_ worse,” Neville says, and he means it. “Believe me, getting elbowed in the gut by you is fine so long as I can just lie here touching you for a bit.”

“Mmm.” Draco wriggles a little to get more comfortable. “Will you sleep over?”

“Obviously.”

Neville enjoys the quiet that follows, tracing his fingers all over the parts of Draco he can reach. His mouth ends up pressed a bit awkwardly to Draco’s collarbone, but from there he can smell Draco’s cologne, so it’s good. He thinks about the things that were said back at the pub. He thinks about how wonderfully Draco got on with Luna. How Draco had spoken stiffly to Hermione at one point, having eased away from Neville to catch her in a quiet moment. Neville didn’t know what was said, but he had watched Hermione quirk a sardonic eyebrow at Draco and shake her head before saying something that looked gentle. Draco had nodded and nearly touched her shoulder before pulling his hand back and nodding again. Hermione had almost smiled at him then. 

Radical, threatening wizard factions aside, it had been a good night. Neville had been relieved and pleased to see Draco doing well in that crowd, and had revelled in the pleasure of having him at his side for most of the night. Neville’s never been serious enough with anyone to be together like that at a party. He hadn’t realized how nice it could be to have someone to sit next to and talk to, someone whose eyes would find yours across a crowd over and over, because the whole point of going together is to be there _together._

“I like this,” Neville says after a while, meaning the fact of them together, but also the feeling of lying comfortably on Draco’s squishy sofa all tangled up. “I like you.”

Under him, Draco takes a shaky breath. Neville tilts his head to look up at him. Draco is wide-eyed again, like he had been outside the pub earlier, like he’s surprised to hear it said out loud, still. 

“I...” Draco clears his throat. Neville shifts up to press his lips to his Adam’s apple in case he does it again, so he can feel it up close. 

“I’m pretty drunk,” Neville mumbles once that thought passes over his mind. “I’m being weird.”

“No,” Draco protests. One of his hands tangles loosely in Neville’s hair. “You’re lovely.”

“Okay,” Neville says. He buries his face in Draco’s neck. “Take me to bed.”

“You have to get off me first.” Draco twitches up with his hips in a way that’s very nice. 

Neville doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay in this warm bubble, still half-hard from their unsuccessful attempts at getting each other off, his trousers unzipped and his shirt all rumpled, with Draco’s fingers insinuated between his waistband and his skin, under his collar against the top of his spine. 

“I’m going to make sure you have a lovely birthday,” Draco murmurs sleepily after a while. “I’ll make up for all the drama tonight. Promise.”

“Don’t need to,” Neville says back, still drifting. “It’ll be perfect. Just being with you.”

Draco’s breath shudders under him again, and he presses his fingers a bit harder into Neville’s skin for a fleeting moment. He clears his throat and says, “Come on. Bed. Sleep. Morning sex.”

Neville smiles into Draco’s neck, then groans his way up and off the sofa. He reaches down a hand to help Draco up next, and they end up standing around clinging for a minute or two. It’s warm and nice, and also helpful for their impaired balance. 

“Mmmph,” Draco mutters after a while. “This is sad. Let’s go, come on. Sleep now.”

Neville follows him into the bedroom, carefully leaving the door open for the cats. He’s asleep practically before his head hits the pillow, but he’s awake enough to make sure Draco settles neatly into his arms before he lets himself drop off. 

“You’re lovely,” Draco slurs again into Neville’s arm, which Draco has tugged over and around himself. 

“No, you,” Neville whispers back, and tips over the edge into sleep. 

 

***

 

In the morning, they cure their hangovers with perhaps the slowest, sweetest, most teasing sex Neville has ever had in his life. 

He wakes when Draco rolls over and cuddles aggressively into his side. It’s far too early to be awake, if the grey light from the window is anything to go by; the sun isn’t really up, and the sky is only just beginning to lighten. The movement startles him though, and instead of closing his eyes and drifting back off, Neville chances a look down at Draco’s sleeping face. But Draco isn’t asleep; he’s looking up at Neville. Just like that, they’re kissing, morning breath be damned. 

Neville barely tracks what’s going on. It’s as if they’re floating in liminal space together in that pale light. Everything is sleepy and smooth. The way Draco rolls again, this time dragging Neville on top of him, is liquid motion. Neville knows Draco likes to feel pressed, weighted down, so he obliges him. The position lines them up just right, and Neville is glad they stripped down before climbing into bed the night before, tipsy as they were. 

For a long time, they’re both only half hard, and all they’re accomplishing are dragging, catching kisses. Neither of them wants to get too sloppy about it. There isn’t much tongue. Morning breath may be damned, but no one needs to get _too_ brave about it, do they? 

Eventually, Neville drags his lips down to that delicious soft spot behind Draco’s ear that makes Draco’s breath hitch just to have it breathed on. Neville breathes on it, then presses his mouth to it. He’s wrapped up in Draco’s arms and legs under soft blankets. Draco goes hard beneath Neville’s hip in moments. Neville hums and kisses back over to Draco’s mouth. 

“Don’t stop,” Draco murmurs into the next kiss. 

“I’m barely doing anything,” Neville says back, kissing him and gathering him in close. Their hips twitch together. 

“Don’t stop anyway,” Draco insists in his sleep-scratchy voice. 

It goes on like that forever, or for hours, or maybe just very long minutes. Eventually, Draco murmurs a summoning spell under his breath and then he’s spreading lube all over the two of them, sloppy and uncoordinated with sleepiness. Slippery, lazy handjobs commence, and then Draco surprises Neville by pushing him away. 

Draco communicates in grunts and with his grabbing hands, and Neville goes along until he’s on his side with Draco slotted up behind him. 

“Legs,” Draco murmurs, pushing a hand between Neville’s thighs. 

Neville parts his legs and Draco slicks them up and then...then he slides his cock between Neville’s thighs and says, “Close.”

Neville whimpers at the first slide of Draco’s wet cock between his own thighs. The movement drags against his own balls, his perineum. Draco’s body is pressed hot and tight along Neville’s back. Draco’s slippery hand reaches around and closes around Neville’s cock, which has begun to drip precome all over the sheets.

They’re still under the covers. Soon, they’re both sweating and panting together, each thrust of Draco’s hips nudging Neville’s cock through the circle of Draco’s fingers. 

“Feels good,” Neville moans. “So good, Draco.”

“Good,” Draco whispers into his ear. “Good, good. Me, too.”

It doesn’t take long at all, despite this being the slowest they’ve ever been with each other. Neville feels that this might be more intense than even the hardest, most enthusiastic fucking he can imagine. All he can think about, all he can feel is warmth, and the places where they touch. 

Then, Neville experiences a rare moment of pre-orgasmic clarity. As his body ramps up into orgasm, somewhat suddenly, all things considered, Neville has the wherewithal to wonder if this is even close to what it would be like to be fucked by Draco, to have Draco pressing inside of him slowly and inexorably, over and over again. The thought sends him right over the edge, and he comes all over Draco’s hand with a gasp. 

Draco follows moments later, pulling back and jerking himself off all over Neville’s arse and thighs. 

 _“Fuck me_ , “ Neville whimpers as they come down, pressed together under Draco’s heavy blankets. “That was so good.”

“Mmm,” Draco agrees, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the back of Neville’s neck. 

“Cast a cleaning charm, love,” Neville murmurs before he drifts off, back to sleep. He doesn’t wait to see if Draco hears him, or if he in fact does it. Just closes his eyes and lets go. 

 

***

 

Later, when it’s actually morning with sunshine and chirping birds, after they’ve woken mercifully free of dried-sticky skin, they head to the kitchen together and slip into an easy routine that shouldn’t be at all easy so soon. 

Still; Draco feeds Thistle and Juliet while Neville comments on and to them about how cute and smart they both are, and how big they’re getting. Neville makes coffee while Draco retrieves the mugs and sugar and cream. Draco starts toast and Neville lays out plates. 

By the time they’re seated, Neville knows what he wants to say to Draco. 

“Would you come home to Terrace House with me sometime?”

Draco looks up from buttering his toast and smiles, sweet and unguarded. “Oh?”

“It’s not much,” Neville says. “But it’s home.”

“When?”

“Whenever. I have to give the head House Elf notice, or she’ll kill me, but— whenever you like.”

 _And then forever after that,_ whispers a voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like said House Elf. 

“Of course I’ll come,” Draco says, and sets down his toast. He leans across the table for a kiss. “Of course I will.”

Neville leans forward on his elbows to chase Draco’s lips, then tips their foreheads together. 

“Good,” he says.

Draco grins. “Good.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holler at me on twitter @meansgirlwrites


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW you've been writing a chapter for months and it's over 12k and you just keep tweaking and shining it up until finally you get sick of yourself and post the dang thing: a memoir. 
> 
> This chapter is heckin' long, which I hope makes up for the long wait between the last chapter and the one before it. The last bits of this fic are nearly entirely written now! Thank you all for sticking with me while I indulged myself in the process of writing it. I adore and appreciate all of you.

Draco and Pansy take the girls out for a walk around the grounds of Finch-Fletchley Manor after dinner one night the following week. Justin is working, and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, often to be found hanging around the place ‘being helpful,’ had begged off before pudding. Pansy had been gleeful, leaning over her tart and demanding details on Neville’s birthday.  _ Longbottom’s Birthday Fuck-Fest, _ is what she had actually called it. 

“I’m not telling you anything,” Draco says again now, as they meander side by side, pushing prams along a well-manicured path. “You’re so weird, don’t you have your own sex life anymore?”

“No,” Pansy says, dragging it out with a condescending tone, like he’s the stupidest man in the world. “I have two infants and a mother in law who  _ never leaves.  _ Of course I haven’t got a sex life anymore, Malfoy, be reasonable.” She sighs. “Pity me. Tell me about your wild sexcapades and allow me to live vicariously through you.”

“It’s none of your business,” Draco says primly. “Also, perhaps you should let me watch the girls one evening. Drop them by the flat, and then come home and rock your husband’s world off its axis, eh?”

“I love you,” Pansy murmurs, and leans over to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Truly. I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Do,” Draco says. 

They walk on in comfortable silence for a number of steps, and then Pansy wonders, “Did he like the gift?”

“He did,” Draco says with a smirk, and then refuses to elaborate on the reaction. 

“Wonder if Potter liked his whiskey,” Pansy teases. 

Draco sighs heavily.  _ “Please _ don’t remind me of all that.” 

“Fine,” Pansy says, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “What will you do when he’s up at school all week?” 

They circle around a fountain and take the path back up toward the hulking manor house. As they do, Draco considers its carefully chosen styles, its half-dark windows, and thinks how strange it is to not miss living in a place like this. How his tiny flat and Neville’s over-crowded one feel more like real homes than any place he’s ever been. The thought of returning to Hogwarts for any reason makes Draco nauseous. He can picture its windows, but only with smoke pouring out, with curse light illuminating the panes, most of them shattered. 

“Draco?” Pansy pauses. “I’m sorry if—”  

“It’s alright,” he says. “Lucky for me, Neville doesn’t expect me to visit him on the grounds. Not that I think anyone would  _ allow _ me to. But he said he would be home most evenings before supper, and the weekends are his. Apprentice teaching is rather a cushy gig. We’ll see each other plenty.”

“I’ve been back,” Pansy says casually. “I requested a meeting with the Headmistress when I was pregnant.”

Draco tries not to show how much this surprises him. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t know how it would go.” Pansy absently rocks the pram containing a grizzling Lisette in an attempt to soothe her, and Draco realizes they’ve been standing here for too long. He moves to walk and Pansy grabs his arm to still him. “I needed to know the girls would be welcome to attend. I didn’t want to find out a decade down the line that we needed to move to bloody France. McGonagall looked at me like I was an idiot and said of course they would. You wouldn’t be barred from the grounds, Draco.”

“I don’t want to go there,” he insists. “I can’t go there.”

“Alright.”

“Let’s walk,” he says. 

Pansy studies him for a long moment then nods, letting him go and strolling along beside him. They stay quiet for the rest of their walk, until they reach the side entrance that will take them into a little vestibule with a winding staircase up to the nursery. Pansy stops him again. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” she says. “Are you listening? When you get in your head about how Neville belongs to Hogwarts and you nearly killed it, floo me so I can slap sense into you.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Draco insists. A clock has been ticking in his head, counting down the days until Neville will start regular days at Hogwarts, effectively ending the sweet summer bubble they’ve been moving in. But still, he hasn’t screwed things up yet, forcing himself to ignore the tick-tick-tick of the days.

“Draco—”  

“He won’t let me do that,” Draco says, embarrassed, feeling himself flush. “Your slapping services shall not be required.”

Pansy’s eyebrows have flown up. “Well. I thought he might get you. He does, hm?”

  
“For reasons I cannot fathom,” Draco replies, “yes.”

Pansy smiles and squeezes him, and Draco helps her get the girls inside while warmth spreads through his own chest, for that moment quite happy with his little life, his best friend and his lovely boyfriend, and of course his perfect god daughters. 

 

***

 

**_A week later_ **

“I don’t understand you,” Neville laughs, standing on the beach in nothing but a pair of swim trunks and an offensive pair of thong sandals. He’s watching Draco erect a small tent, magicless because this is a muggle beach. “Why suggest the beach if it requires such a load of fuss?”

“The beach is fun,” Draco snaps, then curses when one of his tent stakes fly up out of the sand. “It’s supposed to be, anyway.”

“Do we really need all this, though?”

“I  _ burn _ ,” Draco reminds him for the hundredth time. “It’s either the tent or I spend the day in full sleeves and an old lady’s straw hat.”

“You’d look gorgeous,” Neville murmurs into Draco’s ear, having slipped up behind him. 

Draco rolls his eyes and tells himself not to press back into him. 

“The sand is too soft for stakes. Just spell it down.”

“It’s broad daylight. The muggles might see,” Draco says. “Maybe you can afford to get arrested for breaking the statute of secrecy, but we both know I can’t.”

“Rocks in the corners, then,” Neville replies easily. “Hang on.”

Draco watches him stride off and appreciates the view— long, hairy legs with thick delicious thighs disappearing under green shorts that Draco feels could stand to be shorter, Neville’s skin reappearing over the waistband, decorated with tattooed vines that snake all over and stop bare inches below his hairline.  _ Merlin,  _ Draco thinks, then thinks it again when Neville bends down to collect several Quaffle-sized rocks from the jetty, then thinks it again when Neville turns to walk back, the rocks carried three-at-a-time in each hand. He’s delicious from the front, too. Funny knees and soft stomach, lovely chest and  _ arms.  _ Draco has such a thing about the arms. 

“Going to just stare or d’you want to instruct me on where these go?” Neville asks, cheeky. 

“I miss when you still didn’t believe your own hotness,” Draco snipes. 

“Are you going to pretend to be in a mood, or are you going to order me around like I  _ know _ you like to do? The sooner this bloody tent is set up, the sooner you get your clothes off, and the sooner I can suck you off inside it.”

“There are  _ muggle children on this beach.” _

Neville just grins at him and shrugs a shoulder. “Concealment charms don’t break the statute, do they?”

“Put a rock at each corner, it isn’t rocket science,” Draco commands, and pretends the redness in his own cheeks is from the sun. 

 

***

 

**_A week after that_ **

By the next time he sees his mother, Draco’s sunburn has nearly faded. 

Still, she opens proceedings with: “Oh, Draco, what have you been doing with yourself? You look positively  _ swarthy _ .”

He has to very consciously  _ not _ move a muscle, fighting the urge to press his fingertips to the lingering red on the bridge of his nose. He simply smiles serenely and helps his mother into her chair before taking his own seat across from her. 

The tea shop is in Knockturn. Draco wants to get out of there as quickly as he can manage, so he has to play very nice with his mother today. 

“How have you been, mummy?” He asks, pouring tea for her and then himself. 

“Oh,” Narcissa sighs, waving one elegant hand. “Perfectly well, darling. I had a letter from your father last week. I sent you a copy, have you read it?” 

Draco freezes his bland smile in place and hums, hoping it will be interpreted as an affirmative. He doesn't read his father’s letters.

“I worry so,” Narcissa says, sighing again. “Of course the solicitor is one step above useless. The Wizengamot has delayed the second appeal  _ again  _ and he’s done next to nothing to speed things along.”

Draco hums again and focuses on spreading jam over his scone. His mother talks without need for his input, bemoaning his father’s imprisonment, expressing certainty that it will soon end if only the lawyer would do his job, and then transitioning smoothly into talk of her social circle.

“You know,” she says, “it would be a good idea for you to attend a luncheon or two with me, Draco. There are a number of families in my circle who have young daughters, and most are recently emigrated. I think there must be half a dozen wonderful witches whose mothers have asked after you.”

“No, thank you,” Draco says, smooth as you please, then shoves half his scone in his mouth. 

Narcissa’s eyes narrow, her lips puckering in distaste as he chews showily. “Draco.”

“Uh uh,” Draco says through his mouthful. 

“This is juvenile.”

“Mm?” Draco shoves more scone into his mouth before he’s even swallowed the first bite. 

“Fine,” Narcissa says breezily. “Shall I tell you about the most suitable girl first? Her name is Astoria, a bit younger than you, and a distant relation to—”

“Mmph!” Draco waves a hand and swallows too quickly, nearly choking in the process. “No  _ thank you,”  _ he says again. “Please, let’s not have this argument today.”

“Draco,” Narcissa sighs. 

She’s always sighing, Draco’s mother. Sighing and smiling and waving her fingers to dismiss anything inconvenient. 

“Are you going to take away my trust if I don’t marry a pureblood witch?” It’s the first time Draco has been able to say it directly since the first time his mother half-threatened to do it so many weeks ago. Draco has thought about it often, and he thinks he can handle the truth now. If his mother says that she’ll do it, then he’ll tell her to do it, and the money will be gone. Then he will simply...make new plans. Draco tells himself this as he watches his mother watching him, her bright eyes flicking back and forth over his tightly controlled face. 

“No,” she says, finally. “I won’t.”

Draco sags in his seat and swallows hard to avoid gasping his thanks to her. He has  _ some  _ pride left. 

“However,” Narcissa continues. “It would make me happy if you would consider allowing me to— “

“Would nothing else I could do make you happy?” Draco asks, and though it’s a thought he has had in so many depressed, self-hating moments, in this one where he finally asks it out loud (of just one of his parents, the only one here, the only one who really matters at this point anyway), he isn’t sad. He doesn't wonder and despair that the answer will be no. He feels nearly nothing. Curiosity, maybe. 

“Many things you do make me happy, darling,” Narcissa says softly. 

Draco nearly startles in surprise. “Really?”

“Of course,” she says, her voice breaking ever so slightly. She clears her throat. “Don’t be silly. I...have been very proud of you.”

The wording is particular and they both know it. Draco knew his mother was proud when he completed his studies and managed to find a high-paying job in England. He knew she was proud of him during the war, and that when he failed she did not blame him, and loved him still. He knows, though, that his more recent choices are ones she  _ can’t _ be proud of. That she is incapable.

“Does that mean you’ll stop trying to convince me to go back to I&B?” Draco asks. “Does that mean you’ll stop insisting on the arranged marriage?”

Narcissa smirks. “No. Appearances matter, dear.”

Draco’s turn to sigh. “Of course they do.”

“You may continue to refuse, of course,” Narcissa says generously. “A fair arrangement.”

_ I’m in love, _ Draco wants to say.  _ He’s not what you wanted and you would have kittens if you knew who he is but he’s wonderful.  _

“A fair arrangement,” he echoes. “More tea?”

“Yes, please, darling, thank you.”

 

***

 

Draco tells Neville about tea with his mother while they’re in Draco’s bed a few nights later, tucked up under the duvet with the cats at their feet. 

“Sounds like a breakthrough,” Neville remarks. “A weird, stuck-up one, where you both pretend she hasn’t given up on the whole thing, but still.”

“Mm.” Draco is lying with his nose pressed into the crook of Neville’s neck, his face hidden for a muffled retelling of the day which had drained him thoroughly once it was over. Just talking about it is a bit exhausting. “I suppose. It’s a relief that she won’t take the money away.”

“Not to be gauche, but is it quite a lot of money?”

Draco turns his body, lying next to Neville rather than half hiding under him so they can see each other. “Not really,” he says. “It isn’t a fortune. But it isn’t  _ nothing.” _

“I sort of figured,” Neville says. “Seeing as you work and all.”

“Yeah,” Draco says with a wince. He sits up and drags the spare blanket from the foot of the bed, upsetting kittens as he does. He shrouds himself in it like soft armor. He hates having to talk about this sort of thing, but it’s probably time. He’s been dating Neville for an amount of time that can just about be expressed in months, and they spend nearly all of their spare time together. If Draco expects it to continue or get more serious, which he has started to hesitantly admit to himself that he  _ does _ , he ought to put his cards on the table. “Is now the right time to tell you all about the particulars of my situation?”

Neville snorts. “If you like. I mean, you could think of it as something a bit less dry than that. Your past. Plans for the future. The logistics and steps involved. It’s the sort of thing I want to know about. I think you know that by now.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t have to,” Neville says. He sits up and props himself up against the headboard. 

Draco smiles. “No, I want to. You look very sweet just now. Your hair is a wreck and you’re topless. I’d tell you anything you want in this moment.”

Neville smirks. “In that case—“

“Shut up,” Draco snips, then leans forward out of his blanket cocoon just enough to press his lips to Neville’s in a kiss. He settles back into it after pulling away and tugs the sides more snugly around his shoulders. “Okay, here it is.”

“Okay,” Neville says softly. “Shoot.”

“The trust provides me with a small allowance until I reach the age of twenty five, at which time I have full access to it. Had the Malfoy money not been seized, rightfully, for reparations after the war, I really wouldn’t have ever had to work a day in my life. As it is, the trust is now only a small sum of Black money which we were allowed to keep. The allowance is enough that my savings from my old job at I&B can remain savings, while the allowance covers what my current salary would not. Namely, this flat. Food for Thistle and Juliet. Activities other than staring at empty walls. And of course, a small amount of additional savings. It keeps me comfortable, for now, while I’m doing what I’m doing.”

Draco pauses to take a deep breath, and Neville gives him an encouraging little smile, which Draco can’t help but return. 

“So,” he continues, “what I’m doing is learning how to run a business. Specifically, a magical business closely related to potions and their supplies. The job at the Gallipot was a longshot I still can’t believe I pulled off, but it was chosen with a purpose. Golda is the best, and I wanted to learn from the best if I could. Before the war, I thought I would go into a Potions mastership program once I left Hogwarts. I wanted Snape’s job, of course, eventually, but I thought I would make a name for myself first. You know: Become famous and renowned and revered as a genius. But after the war no magical University would accept me for something like that— not outside of Asia, at least, and I didn’t want to go that far away for something that couldn’t ever be what I had dreamed. I’m never going to be famous for anything other than what I’m famous for now.” Draco paused, marshalling his thoughts. “I’d like to achieve something, though. Maybe not renown. But something that’s mine. So I thought about it a lot. I knew I would need money, more money than the trust will provide even when I have full access. So I got the job at I&B like my mother wanted, and at first I even thought I might stick with it, let any other silly ideas go.”

“But you hated it,” Neville says, and Draco realizes that he’s managed to slip a hand inside the folds of Draco’s blanket armor to hold one of Draco’s hands in one of his own. 

“I hated it,” Draco agrees, squeezing Neville’s fingers. “Yes. I hated it so much that my silly idea seemed...necessary.  _ Trying _ seemed better than not trying. So I thought about it some more and I thought, I can’t ever be a Potions master, but I could still brew. I could eventually try to get licensed for small batch commercial brewing. I could go into business for myself with that. I could sell potions and potions ingredients and be quite content, actually.”

Draco pauses again and looks up from his contemplation of the duvet pattern to find Neville looking at him with an objectively soppy expression on his face. Draco bites down on a smile and rolls his eyes. 

“What?” He demands. “Say it.” 

“Nothing,” Neville laughed. “Absolutely nothing, just that you’re amazing.”

“Please,” Draco groans. “Ugh,  _ don’t.” _

“Fine,” Neville concedes, lifting both hands spread wide in surrender. “You’re not amazing at all, you’re completely normal. I mean that— you’re a  _ normal person,  _ doing things because you  _ want _ to and because you’re good at them. Making plans. Choosing for yourself. I once knew a Draco Malfoy who had no idea how to do any of that. I’m...impressed. Proud. Of how extremely boring and normal and well adjusted you are.”

Draco’s heart thunders in his chest. Tears threaten to fill his eyes. Behind his tightly closed lips, words of love and adoration and gratitude fill his mouth but do not tumble out. He looks away from Neville and shuts his eyes to beat it all back. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. 

“You’re welcome.”

Draco turns back and clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m relieved to know that my mother won’t use my trust as collateral in her quest to marry me off to some pureblood disaster from France whose mum has been sucking up to mine.” 

“I’m a pureblood disaster,” Neville offers. “Maybe she’ll settle for me eventually?”

Draco’s heart does cartwheels. “Stranger things have happened,” he says, then climbs half out of his blanket to crawl into Neville’s lap, drawing the fleece around the two of them. “Dare to dream.”

“Yeah,” Neville agrees before they kiss, which quickly turns messy and suggestive. “Wait,” Neville says before things can get more heated. “Wait.”

Draco pulls away with a sigh. “I did a lot of sharing just then, you could let me recover my wits with a little grab arse, you know.”

Neville snorts and laughs into Draco’s neck, to which he presses several soft, sweet kisses while he gets himself together. He leans back and holds Draco’s face in his hands. “In a minute, you horny bastard,” he says. “Listen to me just for one more moment. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Draco says with numb lips, sure that Neville must be able to see the race of his pulse in his neck, the thump of his heart against the walls of his chest. But Neville’s eyes just stare back into Draco’s, warm and kind and full of affection. 

“You’re going to do it,” Neville says simply. “All of it. Promise me you’ll let me help you do it. Any way I can. I want to see you do this. I want to be part of it, if you want me to be.”

_ Do. Not. Cry, _ Draco tells himself sternly. When he opens his mouth to speak his voice is dangerously unsteady. “Sometimes I hate you for being this lovely,” he says, then wants to slap himself for it. 

But Neville just grins. “Yeah, I know you do. Promise me, though.”

“I promise,” Draco says instantly, because it’s an easy promise to make. If this person made entirely out of goodness wants to help Draco realize his silly little mudane dream, who the fuck is Draco to say no to that? What idiot would  _ want _ to say no to that? 

“Now,” Draco says, “make out with me.”

Neville laughs and tumbles them down to the mattress, and from there things get very nonverbal. Draco finds that he still can’t slow his pulse. 

 

***

 

**Later that week**

Draco is nervous about visiting Neville’s family home, and his anxious hands can’t seem to hold anything properly for the entire day on Friday, the day he’s supposed to go there with Neville. He drops a stack of ledgers. He knocks over a bucket of charmed hydration beads. He nearly takes Golda herself out when he fumbles his way through the door after lunch. 

“It’s a bunch of house elves and, from what I hear, an obscene number of rose bushes,” Golda grouses at him. “Not the Taj Mahal. Calm down.”

“Wh-what?” Draco stammers. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard you telling that ridiculous Parkinson twit about your weekend plans,” Golda mutters, “because you  _ insist _ on having personal conversations with your  _ friends _ in my shop. I know you’re going to Terrace House, which I assure you is a quaint little lodge compared to Malfoy Manor. Bloody mess of a place, entirely populated by house elves since the old lady passed on and the young sir took to gadding about America. You are acting like a complete nincompoop for no reason.”

Draco blinks at Golda, so taken aback that he forgets to be embarrassed. “Golda, one would almost think you  _ cared,”  _ he says. 

“Oh, shut up and finish inventory on the extra storage why don’t you.” Golda storms off to the back of the shop, the door leading to the back greenhouses creaking open when she slaps it. 

“You  _ adore me _ , don’t you Golda?” Draco calls after her. 

Golda’s only answer is a loud, disgusted  _ HA! _ Which is cut off by the slamming shut of the door. 

Draco smiles to himself as he heads for the extra storage room. 

 

***

 

Terrace House is actually  _ not all that quaint _ ,  _ thank you very much, Golda. _ Draco isn’t exactly wide-eyed in wonder; he spent his entire life up until adulthood in manor houses and even a minor palace or two, so Terrace House’s faded, understated grandeur does not take him aback. But he likes it on first sight. It’s a  _ home _ , not a  _ house _ , which is a distinction Draco has begun to understand recently, what with his little flat and its slightly stained walls and dodgy plumbing turning out to be the safest place Draco has known in years. 

Terrace House is pretty, yes. The grounds are idyllic, yes. The place is mostly well maintained, and there are clear signs of recent repair and upgrades. But it’s not tortured into perfection, not manicured and shined and charmed to within an inch of its life like Malfoy Manor had been since time immemorial. It’s not pretentious like the houses Draco’s friends lived in when they were children. Draco knows, as they walk up the drive from an apparition point near a superfluous little wooden gate that isn’t actually attached to a fence or wall, that the inside will be warm and welcoming. The lawn sweeping up to the house is practically a grassy cliff, short little zig-zagging staircases leading up to the tiers of planter boxes and mini-gardens that give the place its name. Some of the terraces are full and thriving. Others are empty. Some have statues and fountains in them. Not a bit of it is meant to match or convey any sort of style, but it’s whimsical and sweet. It smells  _ divine _ , like flowers and herbs and running water. 

“Wow,” Draco says sincerely to Neville when they’re about halfway up to the house. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Draco nods. “Truly, wow.”

“In a good way?”

Draco pretends to need a moment to catch his breath, even though the trek up to the house isn’t particularly strenuous, so that he can make direct eye contact with Neville when he says, “I already know that it’s fantastic. I can tell.”

Neville responds with a pleased little smile, so Draco kisses it before taking hold of Neville’s hand and tugging him up the next set of stairs. “Come on,” he says. “How was your first week at good old Hoggy Warty? Tell me everything.”

Neville has been reticent with talk of Hogwarts since his apprenticeship began in earnest on Monday in preparation for the start of classes in two weeks. Draco know it’s because he wants to spare Draco reminders of the place, and because he now knows that a younger version of Draco once would have envied Neville’s position. But truthfully, Draco doesn't care much about the second thing these days, and in the abstract he can handle the first thing. 

Besides, even if it did bother him to so much as hear the word  _ Hogwarts _ , he would still want to know how Neville’s first week had gone. So, when Neville asks if he really wants to hear about all of that, Draco nods and waves a hand in a  _ go on  _ motion, and Neville starts talking. 

Draco listens all the way up to the front entrance of Terrace House, and nearly forgets his nerves. Neville is enthusiastic and funny. It’s lovely watching him light up about the new, expanded Hogwarts greenhouses, and he is adorably perplexed about Professor Sprout. Specifically, he’s horrendously intimidated by her even though he never was as a child. 

“It’s like,” Neville shrugs. “I don’t know, I feel like an intruder. A usurper. She says I’m  _ cute _ about it.  _ Cute! _ She never spoke to us like that in school, and it’s like the more casual she is with me, the more terrified I am. I keep forgetting I’m a grown up! The other day I was walking up to the castle for lunch and a tree waved a certain way, and the shadow scared the living daylights out of me because my brain decided it was Snape, about to tear me apart for being out of my house without my uniform on!” 

Draco laughs. “You’re lying.”

“Well,” Neville pauses before opening the front door when they arrive. “I’m embellishing a bit. Still, it’s weirder than anything, I swear.” 

“Dweeb,” Draco says affectionately, rolling his eyes. “Are we going inside?”

“Yes,” Neville says. “I just want to make sure you’re ready for the elves. I know I told you they’re, you know,  _ intense. _ But I’m not sure you really get how—” 

“It’s fine,” Draco insists with a wave of his hand. “I’m not afraid of your house elves.”

“Just let them fuss.”

“As you told me before.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

Neville hesitates still, and Draco rolls his eyes again. 

“Just open the door!” 

“ _ Alright!” _ Neville huffs and does so, the big, worn wooden door creaking on its hinges as it swings into the foyer. Neville waves Draco in first. “After you.”

Draco takes a deep breath and steps into the warmly lit entryway. He is met by a row of large, luminous eyes— at least six elves waiting patiently in a line just inside the door. Another handful loiter on the staircase dominating the center of the room. 

“Oh,” Draco says, startled by the formality of the arrangment and the laser-focus of all those eyes on him. “Hello?”

“Guys,” Neville sighs once he shuts the door behind them, “tone it down, already.”

“Oh,  _ Master Neville,”  _ says the house elf at the center of the line, stood just slightly in front of the others. “He is  _ very _ pretty indeed.”

Draco can’t help it, he preens a bit and grins over at Neville before giving a small bow to what is clearly Mizzy, the head elf. “You flatter me,” he says smoothly. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“At last,” Mizzy says pointedly, shooting Neville a look. 

“We’ve been dating for less than three months,” Neville defends himself, his voice dry as bone. “Give me a break, Mizzy. Draco, this is Mizzy. Behind her: Denzy, Itsy, Pelzi, Luzy, and Ferdy. Back there on the stair, Kebby, Prezi, and Todd.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at the last.

“Todd’s mother was my gran’s mum’s elf,” Neville explains. “She was mad for human first names.” 

“Innovative,” Draco says with a nod. “I like it.” Then, to the elves, “Thank you all for having me.”

A chorus of elf voices answer, and the three from the staircase join the gang surrounding Draco and Neville, and soon there is a cacophony of questions while tiny elf fingers inspect everything from Neville’s waistline to Draco’s shoes. It goes on for a minute or two before Neville places two fingers in his mouth and whistles. 

“Yes, thank you,” he says once the elves settle. “I love you all, but please go away. We don’t need a ten course meal for supper, Itsy, please, something  _ simple, _ alright?”

The last is said as pops begin to ring out in the foyer as elves crack away to do whatever elves do in an uninhabited estate like this. 

“No promises,” Itsy squeaks, and is gone.    


Neville sighs and turns to Mizzy. “Please rein her in, will you?”

“No promises,” Mizzy echoes, then pats Neville’s hand. “It will be a wonderful evening, Master Neville. Do not worry yourself.”

As she apparates away, Draco laughs and Neville groans. 

“Sorry if that was overwhelming,” Neville says, tugging Draco close again now that there is no sea of elves to keep them apart. 

“I loved that,” Draco says truthfully. “That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, and your face is so red in this moment, good  _ lord.  _ So your elves adore you. This surprises no one.”

“They mother me,” Neville says. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”

“No it isn’t,” Draco says gently, then tugs at Neville’s hands. “Give me a tour.”

Neville nods, but takes a moment to kiss Draco thoroughly before tugging him toward the large, open doorway to their right. “I’m warning you, this wing is a mess. We’ll start there so I can get the boring renovation talk out of the way. You’ll have to put up with it, I hardly ever get to tell anyone about it and you’re a captive audience now. But then I’ll show you the kitchens, which are  _ amazing.” _

Draco lets Neville pull him along and ramble on, following from room to dusty room. 

It’s the most Hufflepuff house Draco has ever seen. There are badger motifs all over the east wing.  

“Yeah, this was the original bit of the place,” Neville says when Draco points it out. “Tons of Longbottoms in Hufflepuff back then. Shocking, I know.” 

“What will you do with these rooms once you restore them?” Draco wonders. 

“No idea,” Neville replies, touching a cracked mantlepiece. “This wing’s been under stasis charms for years; I’ve been told it’s foolish to worry about it when it’s just me living here. But it seems wrong to let it sit like this when I have the means to fix it up a bit. Gran didn’t have the time or the stamina to do the spellwork or supervise contractors doing it. I might be a bit tight on time soon, but summers can be for the house, I think.” 

“I think it’s nice that you want to bring it back to life,” Draco says. “Let me know if I can help.” 

Neville turns from the fireplace, located in what he had called ‘Uncle Albert’s old office’ and smiles that sweet little smile that makes Draco uncomfortably warm. “I will,” he says. “Thanks.” 

They stare goofily at each other for a moment, then Neville catches Draco’s hand again to lead him out of the east wing and head for the kitchens. 

“Come on,” he said softly. “I can’t kiss you in Uncle Albert’s room, it’s way too weird. Let’s go to the kitchens and then I’ll take you upstairs for a real snog.”

“Hot,” Draco says, and follows him. He squeezes their hands together. “An excellent plan.” 

 

***

 

Neville makes good on his promise, and after more attention from some of the elves who apparently ended up in the kitchens after the scene in the foyer, he takes Draco back through and up the big staircase with its mezzanine landing and warm, polished wood. 

“My gran’s room,” Neville says, a bit hushed, as he points to the big double doors on the landing. Then, pointing toward the stairs to the east wing’s upper level, “There are some disused guest rooms that way, and a study.”

“Hmm,” Draco murmurs. He allows himself to be tugged along in the opposite direction, his eyes lingering on the dusty door handles of the master suite. Neville hasn’t opened those doors, he doesn't think. 

“Dad’s old room is at the end of the hall,” Neville says. “Next to the staircase up to the owlery. I’ll take you in there for a minute.”

Draco shrugs. “Sure,” he says, though he can’t keep the confusion off his face. 

_ Dad’s old room, _ Neville had said. Not  _ my room.  _

“The room isn’t much,” Neville explains. “Gran had dad’s things packed away and it’s basically a big guest suite now. It’s not the room I want you to see, but the view.” 

“Oh,” Draco says with another shrug. “Sure, okay.” 

“C’mon,” Neville murmurs, opening the door and leading Draco inside. 

The room is indeed unremarkable in decoration. In fact, there is hardly any personality to it at all. It looks a bit like a very nice hotel room. But the far wall is dominated by a picture window with a seat, and Draco can see exactly why Neville brought him here. 

It’s sunset, lighting up the sky beyond the thick woodlands in the distance with bright oranges and streaks of pink. But it’s the rolling grounds behind Terrace House that take Draco’s breath away. 

_ “Oh,” _ he breaths. “Wow.” 

There are fields of wildflowers out there, and a cluster of greenhouses. Directly below this window is a large, walled rose garden. To the east, an overgrown thicket looks like it had once been a tiered topiary maze. The grounds are not park-like as Malfoy Manor’s were. There doesn't appear to have been much planning in the placement of things. Pieces of it are positively wild and overgrown. But at this time of day, the entire thing glows like embers in the dying sunlight. A golden mist hovers over the swaying faces of wildflowers in the distance. Where the forest encroaches at the edge of the easternmost grounds, it is already darkening, and fireflies wink at the bases of trees. To the west it’s the brightest, still. It’s like looking at night and day where they meet in the center of the world. 

Draco completely forgets he’s in Wiltshire. This is heaven. 

“Yeah,” Neville sighs next to him. “You get it.” 

This surprises Draco into a laugh. “I do?” 

“Yeah, you do,” Neville says confidently. “I knew you would.” 

“Suppose you can’t snog me in the room your father grew up in, either,” Draco says after a beat. Neville looks away from the window and grins. 

“Come on,” he says, and leads the way to his own room, just a few doors down. 

Draco gets half a glance around and no time to process before the door clicks shut and he is pressed back into it by Neville’s body, his face already cradled in Neville’s hands, which are as  big and warm as ever, but somehow feel even more at home on Draco’s skin now than they ever have before. It’s as though the quiet, lived-in halls of the house, with its unpretentious burnished wood and age-worn rugs, have made them surer. Neville doesn't kiss Draco any differently than he has before, but his contentment is obvious in the lush, unhurried movement of his lips over Draco’s. 

Draco kisses back as much as he can, but Neville seems intent on having this one exactly how he wants it, and Draco is more than happy to go along for the ride, letting his mouth fall open when Neville’s thumbs at his jaw stroke gently down, and meeting Neville’s tongue with his own rather than trying to fight his own way forward. 

It feels good,  _ so  _ good. Draco feels settled, as if this is exactly where he belongs, has always belonged, and that thought has him gasping and Neville drawing back. 

“Okay?” Neville asks, his fingertips tracing a path along Draco’s cheeks and up his temples, burying in his hair but not pulling. 

“Yes,” Draco rushes to assure him. His heart should be pounding. He should be panicked or shocked by how perfect all of this is. He isn’t. He really is okay. All he can manage to do is look up into Neville’s dear face and breathe slowly in and out, the smell of him and the smell of firewood and old paper and clean linens inside this room filling him up. He feels boneless against the door. “Do we have time for anything serious before the elves come knocking to drag us to dinner?”

“Not really,” Neville murmurs regretfully, and presses his lips to Draco’s forehead before pulling him away from the door. “But,” he adds, “and I’m sure you want to poke around and make fun of all my old books and trinkets—which you are welcome to do. But first, I’m suddenly exhausted. Lie down with me?”

Draco nods and allows himself to be towed over to the bed, which is only a double, and will be a cozy fit for the two of them. “Now that you mention it, I’m sort of done in,” he says. “It was busy at work, and then of course I had to scale a cliff to get to your house.”

Neville chuckles as he pulls back the heavy duvet and sheets. “Ah yes, sorry for the unexpected mountaineering.” 

Draco curls into Neville’s side and uses a spot of wandless magic to tug the sheets up and over them. “I forgive you,” he says. “That sunset was more than worth it.” 

“Tomorrow in the morning light it will be even nicer,” Neville says. “If you can believe that.”

“I can’t, but I’m looking forward to the show.” 

“I’ll take you through the garden tomorrow. To the greenhouses.” 

“Please do.” Draco yawns. “Your house is great.”

“You look good in it,” Neville says sleepily, his arm tightening around Draco’s waist. 

Draco is ridiculously glad that Neville can’t see his blushing face. He can’t think of what to say, and after a moment it’s clear from the sound of Neville’s even breathing that he has dozed off. 

_ I fucking love you, _ Draco thinks. And then, because Neville’s asleep, he whispers it so quietly he’s not even sure he actually said it out loud. 

Next time he says it, he’ll make sure Neville hears it. 

 

***

 

Dinner is odd, but also wonderful, because Neville stops Mizzy before she can snap her fingers and disappear as the first course appears on their plates. 

“Mizzy, you always stay during meals,” he says. 

Mizzy wrings her hands. “Master Neville, it isn’t right for Mizzy to stay when Master has a guest.” Her eyes flick to Draco and then back to Neville. 

“I don’t mind,” Draco says. “Really.” 

“See?” Neville spreads his hands out to the sides. “It’s fine, you should sit. Tell me how the upstairs elves are getting along with the downstairs crew these days.” 

“Master Malfoy cannot possibly wish to be hearing about elf things,” Mizzy frets.

This couldn’t be further from the truth. Neville had filled Draco in on the feuding factions of Terrace House’s elf population, and Draco finds the entire thing to be fascinating. So, Draco leans forward in his seat. “Oh, I assure you, Master Malfoy is dying for some decent gossip,” he says. 

“Well…”

Neville chuckles. “Sit down Mizzy, and tell him everything.”

Mizzy does, and by the time dessert is being served, Draco is engrossed. 

“Itsy shouldn’t be so harsh toward Todd,” he agrees with her, then pauses after his first bite of chocolate souffle. “God,” he says, as rich flavor spreads over his tongue. “Then again, this souffle is amazing. Itsy can do whatever she wants.”

Mizzy snorts. “Itsy is agreeing with Master Malfoy. But it isn’t being Todd’s fault that he isn’t liking girl elves, and Itsy should move on.” 

Neville has been quietly laughing himself to tears, and at this he loses it entirely. 

“You’re going to cry into that souffle!” Draco squawks, and rescues it. “If you’re not going to eat it, I’m taking it.” 

“Share it with me,” Neville manages between sobbing bouts of laughter. “His sweet tooth is unbelievable,” he tells Mizzy. 

“Itsy will be falling in love with you next,” Mizzy says to Draco. 

“I’m not into girls either,” Draco replies. 

Neville dissolves all over again. 

 

***

 

After dinner, Neville shows Draco to a little sitting room he skipped over during their tour earlier. 

“This is the only completely redone room in the house,” he says as they settle together on a squishy leather sofa with tumblers of firewhiskey in hand. “You should’ve seen it before. Gran  _ really _ liked chintz.” 

“Not your thing, then?” Draco remarks, then, “It’s hard changing things, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Neville says on a sigh. He swings his legs up onto the sofa, and gestures for Draco to do the same. They sit facing each other, backs leaning against the arms of the sofa, legs tangled together. “Sometimes it feels wrong to do it,” he says. “Like I’m saying I’m glad Gran’s gone by taking out the things of hers that aren’t my favorites.”

Draco tsks, and Neville shakes his head with a self-deprecating shrug. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “Can’t help it, though. I’m working on it. This room was the easiest to confront. I  _ really _ hated the chintz, and the chairs were always so bloody uncomfortable. Gran could be harsh, and whenever I got a talking to, it was in this room in one of those ugly, painful chairs.”

Draco strokes at Neville’s leg with one of his feet. “Did you burn them?”

The corners of Neville’s eyes crinkle. “No, I donated them somewhere. The thought did cross my mind, but I’m not as upset as all that about them, or what they symbolized for me. Gran wasn’t cruel, ever. She wasn’t an overly affectionate person, but she did love me.” 

Draco stays quiet. He can sort of relate to that, but he can’t help thinking that he doesn't deserve to commiserate on this one. Neville really has lost his entire family, none of whom were war criminals. 

“Anyway, I like this room now,” Neville says after a while. “It’s a bit plain, still, but I like it.”

“You have a set of muggle lithographs upstairs in your room,” Draco says. “They would fit perfectly in here. Either side of the fireplace.” 

Neville blinks, his gaze slipping away from Draco to the empty, cream-colored walls beside the carved mantle of the fireplace. “Huh,” he says. “You think?” He looks to Draco again. “You noticed those?”

“One rarely sees muggle art in a Wizarding home,” Draco replies, thinking of how little non-portrait art he has ever seen in any wizarding building. “They caught my eye.” 

“Are you good at decorating?”

Draco shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe? My mother is obsessed with the excitement of it and used to redecorate a room every season on a rotating basis. I absorbed it by osmosis, perhaps.”

Neville chuckles. One of his hands closes around Draco’s ankle, and he circles the knob of the joint with his thumb. It’s nice, relaxing; innocent. It’s a mundane touch, for a mundane conversation. Draco adores it. He hasn’t ever been so at ease before, and he wonders idly if the elves drugged the dessert or something. 

They sit and talk quietly over their drinks, the whiskey just enough to add a light, pleasant haze to the evening. 

“Getting sleepy?” Draco asked, nudging Neville with his foot. “Time to take you to bed? Or rather, you could take  _ me _ .” 

“About that,” Neville says, sitting up straight so that he can reach the low table in front of the sofa, depositing his glass there. He takes Draco’s and does the same, then grabs for Draco’s hands, hauling him into his lap. 

“Yes?” Draco drawls, wiggling his hips and arching one eyebrow. 

“Um,” Neville starts, then stops to clear his throat. A bloom of red across his cheeks darkens his whiskey-warmed flush. “I wondered if we could try something a little different tonight.”

_ “Oh?”  _ Draco grins and bites his lip. Neville is barely making eye contact with him, so Draco shifts and chases his gaze a bit, before finally catching Neville’s chin in his hand. “Embarrassed? Really?”

“Just a little nervous,” Neville admits sheepishly. “I dunno if it’s something you’d be interested in.” 

Draco strokes his hand with the grain of Neville’s beard and leans forward to kiss him, gentling his fingers against Neville’s face in a way he hopes is soothing. “I’m probably going to be  _ very _ interested. I don’t have many hard limits, you know. I’m a bit of a slut.”

Neville giggles and shakes his head. “You’re not,” he protests, but Draco shuts him up with another kiss. When it ends, Neville takes a deep breath. “I wondered if you’d want to…” He huffs. “I dunno why I can’t just say it.” 

“I’m intrigued,” Draco murmurs. He really  _ doesn't  _ have any guesses as to what Neville could be so nervous to ask. Does he want to do something  _ dangerous? _ Seems unlikely, but then so many things that have turned out to be real in Draco’s life started out as unlikely. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Neville blurts, then tips his forehead down, hiding his face against Draco’s shoulder. “What do you think?” he asks, muffled. 

Draco blinks at nothing, his pulse kicking up. “Really?” he says. “Are you sure?” 

“Think so,” Neville says. “I’ve been thinking about it.” 

“I thought that wasn’t your thing.” 

“I only tried it with one other person, and he was kind of a dickhead in general and, I’ve learned through experience, overall not that great in bed.” 

“That doesn't mean you’ll like it any better with me.” 

Neville picks his head up to meet Draco’s eyes. “Maybe it does. I know you won’t be careless. I know it won’t...you know, be painful.”

Draco is filled with a flash of rage.  _ “What?” _ He swallows against all the rest of the things he wants to say. “That is, did it hurt last time you did it?”

“Well, a bit,” Neville says, nervous. “I figured it would a little, at first. But it just never got better, not any of the times, so I decided it wasn’t for me. But then you— ” 

Draco remembers, distantly, Neville’s nervousness the first time they really fucked and says, with dawning clarity, “Oh, I see.” 

“You seem to like it a lot.” 

Draco huffs a laugh. “I love it,” he says. “You still might not. What made you think of this?” 

“Oh,” Neville looks away again, blushing hard. Draco touches his heated cheeks and tries not to look too soppy. “My birthday,” Neville says after a moment. “When we woke up and you—” 

“ _ Ohh,  _ your  _ thighs,”  _ Draco says, not needing a play by play to remember it with pants-scorching clarity. It had been unbearably hot, incredibly sexy to have Neville writhing and squeezing tight for him, all warm and close under the covers. Draco had replayed it in his mind more than a few times. “Well, that was good. We could do that again, you know.” 

“I know,” Neville says. “But.” 

“But you really want this.” Draco raises his eyebrows. 

“Do you?” 

“Are you mad?” Draco reaches around to get a grip on Neville’s backside with both hands. “I’m obsessed with this, as you know. You want to let me— God, yes, I want that.” 

“Come upstairs, then,” Neville says, at once easy as anything and dead serious. 

Draco shivers. “Yes,” he says. “Upstairs.” 

 

***

 

Neville insists that he wants to move things along immediately, that he wants Draco’s fingers and then his cock, as soon as possible, but Draco drags it out. He undresses them both slowly, kisses Neville lazily and deeply, touches him everywhere. Then he tumbles them down to the bed and commences yet more kissing while he strokes his fingers lightly up and down Neville’s chest, sweeping them at odd intervals down to tease his cock, skim over his thighs, before hurrying away. 

Neville mutters about being treated like a fragile virgin, and Draco snipes at him that turnabout is fair play. Neville insists he’s never been  _ this  _ condescending in bed. It devolves into a brief wrestling match. 

“I’ve had your fingers before,” Neville says, once Draco has been allowed to win, pinning Neville down and treating him to a sloppy, insolent blowjob. 

He wriggles his hips as Draco sits back on his heels and teases at Neville’s entrance with two slick fingertips. 

“Yes,” Draco agrees, drawling, feigning cool disinterest just for fun. “You said so already, but excuse me for wanting to make this  _ special.” _

“You’re just a tease,” Neville says, a touch of whine in his voice. 

Draco laughs and slips one finger in up the knuckle, delighting in the little gasp of surprise it earns him. “Am I?”

Neville laughs too even as he gasps and tries to wriggle his hips a little, his big lovely arms flung up and clutching the pillow under his head. “No, I’m sorry I said that.”

“Bloody right you’re sorry,” Draco says, adding just a touch of bite to his voice as he pulls out and shoves back in with two fingers. 

Neville gasps again and then groans, his head tilting back to expose the length of his stubbled throat, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

“Oh, like that?” Draco murmurs idly. “Like this?” He thrusts in deeper and hooks his fingers a little, seeking out Neville’s prostate as he slips them not out but back and then forward again in little pulses of his hand. He knows exactly how Neville likes it, and plans to exploit that, to drive him right up to the edge before going any further.

_ “Fuck,”  _ Neville groans. “Draco,  _ yeah—” _

“You’re so hard,” Draco observes, still rocking his hand back and forth. He tilts his chin to indicate Neville’s cock, red and leaking. “Did you want me to touch there, too?”

“Not yet,” Neville gasps. 

“No?”

“Please, no,” he begs. Draco grins and shifts up and over so he’s kneeling fully between Neville’s spread legs.

“Bend your knees,” Draco says, and Neville obeys almost instantly, bringing his knees up, his feet flat against the mattress. He’s rocking with the thrusting of Draco’s fingers almost instantly. Draco bites his lip and considers his next move. When he comes to it, his eyes light up. He fucks his fingers in and out in a smooth, steady rhythm, enjoying the play of reaction over Neville’s face as he does. “Touch yourself,” he orders. 

“But—”

“Do it.” 

Neville whimpers and lets go of the pillow with his right hand, sliding it down his own body to gingerly grip his cock with a shudder. 

Draco takes a deep breath and leans forward. He waits until Neville has moaned into the third stroke of his hand before he says, “That’s perfect.  _ Good boy.” _

Neville’s hips come up off the bed and his hand goes flying away, back to clutch at the pillow as he cries out. He thrusts helplessly into nothing. 

Draco laughs.

“Bastard,” Neville gasps. “You  _ know _ —” 

“I know what that does to you, yes,” Draco says. “Are you all worked up, darling? Are you desperate to come yet?” 

Neville’s chest heaves. His body tries to meet the thrusts of Draco’s fingers, but Draco makes him work for it, moving them in unexpected ways, working them in a scissor-like motion, finding and using his wand with his free hand to summon more lube. 

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, pouring lube directly over Neville’s rim, stretched around two of Draco’s fingers. 

“Wh-what?” 

“Are you desperate to come yet?” 

_ “Yes,” _ Neville grits out between clenched teeth. “You know I am.”

“So,” Draco says, sliding in his ring finger. “Do you want to come first, or do you want me to fuck you now?”

“Oh my god,” Neville sobs, his body taking the third finger beautifully. “Now, I want it now.” 

“How do you want it? On your back like this?” 

“No. Like that morning,” Neville says. He pushes up on his elbows. He looks amazing with his chest, neck, and face all flushed red, his lips bitten to match. “Can we do it like that?” 

Draco withdraws his fingers slowly as he leans forward, dropping his wand to hook his clean hand around the back of Neville’s head and pull him in close. “We can do it however you want,” he says, serious for the first time since they started. It fills him with an almost unbearable feeling of protectiveness, to be put in this position. He’s been on the other side of this exchange with Neville countless times by now. The change-up is a little intoxicating. “And if you don’t like it, say so, and we’ll stop.” 

“Alright,” Neville murmurs. 

Draco kisses him, tasting sweat and the lingering flavor of firewhiskey. “Lie down,” he says. “Turn almost onto your stomach. I’ll need that pillow.” 

Neville obeys, and Draco arranges them with a little more thought than he’s used to, trying to make up for the difference in their sizes and heights with some creative propping. 

“Pull this knee up,” he says after he slides up behind Neville’s half-sprawled body, tapping his fingers against the hip not pressed to the bed. “Hold it there for now, hand behind your knee, alright?” 

“Mm,” Neville says, half-muffled by the pillow as he follows the direction. 

Draco runs a soothing hand over Neville’s shoulders and down his back, kneading the muscles a little as he goes. He gives one round arsecheek a playful pinch just to make him laugh, and then slips two fingers into him again just to check. 

“Relax,” he murmurs when he finds that Neville has tensed a little. “As much as you can. When I start to press in, bear down. It sounds counterintuitive, but try to push me out. It’ll make it easier. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Neville says. 

Draco reaches up and buries his fingers in Neville’s hair, gently tilting his head back so Draco can press a soft kiss to the side of his neck. “I know you do,” he says, breathless. He uses his other hand to line himself up. “Knee closer to your chest and spread your thighs some more.” 

Neville adjusts the spread of his legs and Draco presses the head of his cock against the tight pucker of Neville’s hole. 

“That’s it,” he says encouragingly. “Perfect, darling. Are you ready?” 

Neville nods. 

They shudder together in the split second before Draco breeches him. 

“Bear down,” Draco reminds him as the head of his cock pops past the ring of muscle. He pauses, as much to allow himself time to get his wits about him as to allow Neville time to adjust. “That’s right,” he says as he feels Neville relaxing by degrees. Draco pushes in more and stops again. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Neville says, his voice thick with tension. “It’s not  _ good _ yet, but it isn’t painful. It’s. Tight.” 

“Imagine how I feel,” Draco teases, hitching his hips forward incrementally. He swallows against a groan, and it hums in his chest. “You’re incredible, just perfect. I’ve never felt anything like this.” 

Neville just whimpers at that, and then cries out through the last push that seats Draco completely within his body. 

Draco slips his hand under Neville’s, which is slick with sweat and shaking where he holds his leg up and out of the way. 

“I want you to reach back and hold my hip, and I’m only going to move at the pace you set,” Draco says. “At least at first. Go on.” 

Neville obeys, and Draco praises him without a thought, then drinks up the sounds Neville makes at being told he’s doing so well. 

“There,” Draco groans as Neville exerts the smallest amount of pressure on Draco’s hip to say he wants Draco to move a bit. “That’s perfect, you’re doing so well.” 

“Fuck,” Neville whimpers. “I—” He guides Draco with his hand and arches his neck, tipping his head back. Draco presses his lips wherever he can reach: Neville’s temple, the very top of his cheekbone, just behind his ear. Neville shudders through the first few slow thrusts. 

Soon, they find a slow, rolling rhythm. 

“This is what you want?” Draco murmurs into Neville’s ear. “Just like this?” 

“Yeah,” Neville groans. “It’s good. Feels—” he gasps as Draco rolls his hips again. “Oh, right there.” He takes his hand away from Draco’s hip. “Do that again.”

Draco hums and kisses his neck. He hitches Neville’s leg up higher before drawing it back just a little, hooking it over his own arm. “We should have done this in front of a mirror,” he says. “You’re probably gorgeous all spread out like this for me.”

The slight change in angle is perfect for longer, harder thrusts that jostle Neville’s body with each undulation. He cries out and seems unsure of what to do with his free hand, so Draco tells him to touch himself. 

“I’ll come,” Neville warns.

“Good,” Draco replies, and pulls nearly all of the way out before thrusting back in hard, and apparently at just the right angle, because Neville  _ keens.  _ “Good,” Draco says again, and puts his back into it. “Do you like it a little harder?” he manages to say, though he is fast running out of breath and possibly brain cells to form complete sentences. “I do, but you already know that. I love the way you fuck me. I love how you make me feel.” 

“H-how?” Neville asks, breath coming in harsh pants as his hand strips his cock. 

“Like you own me,” Draco says, snapping his hips just a little harder. “I could fuck you like that next time. With your face pushed into the mattress, or your hands up against the door, on your knees or on your back folded up in half. Or—  _ ah—  _ you could ride me. Hold me down and take what you want. You know how I lo-love that.” 

“Yeah,” Neville groans. “Draco, I’m close.” 

“Tell me what you need.” 

“Keep. Talking.” 

Draco laughs. “Oh, this is too good,” he says. He presses his forehead to the back of Neville’s shoulder. “I could say anything. But we both know you want to hear how you’re perfect, and gorgeous, how your arse is a fucking national treasure and I love it, I  _ love  _ being inside of it. You’ll look so hot covered in your own come with mine dr-dripping out of you.” 

Neville’s sounds are mindless by then, and Draco feels himself hurtling fast in that direction.

“Come on now, darling,” Draco gasps, the burn of impending orgasm driving his hips forward without his conscious thought. “Come for me while I’m in you. Let me feel it.” 

_ “Oh!”  _ Neville shouts just a moment later, and his body tries to curl in too many directions, shuddering and tightening against and around Draco. 

“Good boy. You’re so perfect,” Draco babbles, fucking Neville through it. 

“Ah,” Neville half-sobs. “I want you to come in me.” 

“Yes,” Draco manages through his clenched teeth. It takes next to no time for his orgasm to  _ finally _ crest and then crash over him. It feels like he’s pouring into Neville with his entire body. His entire being. He comes so hard that he forgets himself and grips Neville’s thigh  _ far  _ too hard, his nails leaving little half moons of red when he peels his fingers away. 

“Sorry,” Draco says, pressing the pads of his fingers there even while he’s still twitching, still moving inside Neville in involuntary little jerks. 

“S’ok,” Neville says, his voice slightly dreamy. “Didn’t feel bad.” 

“Did any of it?” Draco demands belatedly, when he finds enough breath to speak, then says, “Wait, no, I’m still—  Don’t answer that, I need to—” 

“Mmph,” is all Neville says as Draco pulls out.

Draco lowers Neville’s leg wi th a groan . Neville’s torso is slippery with sweat and come, and Draco doesn't care one bit. He wraps his arm around Neville’s waist and clings. “Are you good?  _ Did _ any of it feel bad?”

“No. It was...very good,” Neville murmurs. “I didn’t expect it to be that way.”

“...what way?” Draco ventures, a little nervous to hear the answer. 

Neville turns in his arms. His eyes are soft with post-orgasmic lassitude. He smiles lopsidedly and kisses Draco slowly, gently. “You know,” he murmurs against Draco’s lips before kissing him again. “Like, really kind of dirty, actually. You’re such a  _ talker.” _

“I had planned to be a little less…” Draco winces. “Well, I intended to be a little more like  _ you,  _ you see. Sweeter. Gentler.” 

“‘M not always sweet and gentle,” Neville protests, a more wiked version of his smile spreading his lips. “You’d hate it if I was, as much as you like to be tossed around.”

Draco rolls his eyes but doesn't bother to protest. 

“And I didn’t ask you to be like  _ me.  _ I never would.”  

“I didn’t say you did,” Draco replies. “But...it was what you wanted?”

Neville wriggles a bit to get his arms around Draco, somehow managing to bring them even closer together. One of them is going to have to clean things up, and soon— the feeling of cooling semen on sweaty skin is easy to ignore now, but things are going to get fairly disgusting soon. Still, they lie tangled together there for a while in silence. 

“My birthday,” Neville says after a bit, clearly sex-dumb and sleepy judging by the way he draws out his words, “was incredibly intense, actually. It was you bossing me about a bit, and making me feel really good in the process. This? Same thing. Haven’t you noticed that it’s  _ always  _ like this?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Between us, it’s always been...you know.” Neville shrugs one shoulder.

Draco does know, he thinks. But he asks anyway, “It’s always been what?”

“Uneblievably  _ good sex,” _ Neville laughs at himself. “If we were muggles, I’d call it magic. Those first few times were…I still can't describe it. And I thought it would have changed by now, but it hasn't. I don't know if it ever will. I think, sometimes...actually, I think this a lot— I think I was made for you. Maybe.”

Draco bites his lip, unsure how to respond to that in a normal way. “Alright, then,” he says. 

“Alright,” Neville echoes, and falls asleep between one breath and the next.

 

***

 

Draco is sore in the morning. He might give Neville grief for treating him like a waif, but the truth is that while their heights aren’t  _ that _ disparate, Draco can’t hope to match Neville’s muscle mass. Holding up Neville’s glorious thigh while engaging muscles he hadn’t remembered he had the first place had done a bit of a number on him. 

Still, it’s a good soreness that Draco relishes for a moment before glancing around Neville’s bedroom in the morning light and realizing he’s alone. 

A glance at the bedside clock tells him it’s still a respectable time of day to be just waking up, but also that Neville probably got up hours ago. The man likes his mornings. Draco doesn't bother getting fully dressed, just scooping his underwear and Neville’s t-shirt from the day before off the floor. Draco has no idea where he put the charm-shrunken bag he brought with him the day before, and besides, he gets a warm sort of thrill wearing Neville’s things. It doesn't hurt that Neville clearly likes it too, having proven to be obsessed with how his shirts drape over Draco’s frame. 

The house is quiet. Draco proceeds down the hallway and the stairs unaccosted by house elves. He pokes his head first into the sitting room, but it’s empty. Their glasses have been cleared, and the lithographs they had discussed have appeared on the walls already. Draco grins at them and taps his fingers on the doorway, wondering if he should try the kitchen or the garden next. 

“The summer garden is through the kitchen, Master Malfoy,” a voice whispers from somewhere down the hall, but when Draco turns to thank whichever elf is giving the clue, there’s none to be seen. He does hear the muffled sound of tittering, though. 

“Thank you,” he whispers back, and the tittering is silenced by even louder shushing sounds. 

Draco pauses in the kitchen, empty as the rest of the house has been so far, to appreciate it. Neville had been right when he said it was amazing. The room is huge and ancient. Neville told him that the kitchen is original to the house, with very few upgrades, most of which had been done in the early 20th century. Stepping into the kitchen is like stepping back in time, which is true of many magical places. This, though, is extreme even by pureblood standards. 

Draco bypasses the huge hearth and stone oven, the charmed pantry, and the shining butcher block workbenches, running his fingers over the surface of the table in the center of the room as he goes. It looks like it could have been hewn yesterday, its condition is so pristine; Neville had told Draco that it’s nearly six hundred years old and dates back to when the family were peasants. 

Neville’s house is like the one Draco grew up in when it comes to history. The difference is that Terrace House is alive with it, whereas Malfoy Manor had threatened to crush one with it. 

Draco stops in front of the massive wash basin to the right of the wide double doors that lead out into the summer garden. This spot, should a wizard or witch stand there, provided a view straight down the center of the garden, directly to the gate. 

Neville said his Gran liked to stand there and watch him talk to the roses when he was small. Draco had nearly perished, this information, and the mental image that came with it, was so precious. 

The direct view is convenient; Draco sees Neville at the gate a handful of moments later. At first, Draco raises his fist to tap on the window and get his attention. But he pauses, because Neville is carrying an armful of wildflowers, and he’s headed straight for a rose bush like a man on a mission. 

As Draco watches, Neville lays down the bundle of flowers he’s carrying, and starts to inspect the rose blossoms. His lips move. He’s talking to them.  _ He’s talking to them, _ Draco’s brain screeches at him.  _ Oh Merlin, I’m going to die,  _ he thinks back to himself. He is not even a little surprised at this sudden downward spiral. This is it. This is what’s going to finally break his brain. And Draco is fine with it, because this is—  

Neville cuts three large blooms, his fingers carefully finding the right place to snip each stem, one at a time, and then he appears to study the bundle at his feet. He places the roses in seemingly random places, and then scoops the entire thing up, standing straight again to fuss with a few of the cuttings until he appears satisfied, at which point he gathers them in his hands like a bouquet rather than carrying them as a bundle. 

Draco’s mind explodes. 

He grips the edge of the wash basin to hold himself up. He takes in one shuddering breath. Neville continues to inspect and rearrange the flowers in his hands. 

Draco shakes his head to himself, his thoughts racing.  _ Go out there. No, don’t. Wait for him to come to you. He picked you those flowers. He’s picked you  _ all  _ the flowers he’s ever given you. He talks to the flowers he gives you. Oh, fuck, go out there.  _

Draco goes out there. 

The double doors rattle when he fumbles with their latches. By the time he gets them open, Neville is meandering up the garden path again, and has noticed that Draco is headed his way. 

“Hey!” He says cheerfully, completely oblivious to the fact that the universe is shuddering around them. “Thought you would sleep longer,” he goes on, just as Draco reaches him. “Guess my surprise isn’t much of a surprise, then.” 

“You picked all my flowers, didn’t you?” Draco asks, demands to know, louder than he intended, but steadier than he thought he could manage. 

“Oh,” Neville flashes him a sheepish smile. “Well, yeah, of course. I’m a gardener.” 

“You’re one of the top five master Herbologists in the world.” 

Neville huffs. “Alright fine, but I’m a gardener first and foremost.” 

_ “Fuck,” _ Draco says succinctly, and then he takes Neville’s face in both of his hands and snogs the living daylights out of him even as he tries to be mindful and not crush the gorgeous, perfect, hand-chosen, lovingly-spoken-to flowers. 

Neville chuckles in the back of his throat and kisses back, his lips curving into a smile under Draco’s.

Draco pulls away. 

Neville smiles sweetly at him. “What was that fo—”

“I  _ love  _ you,” Draco says, because that’s the only thing he can say to the completely ridiculous, sweet, devastating person whose face he holds between his palms. He has to say it twice, in fact. “I  _ really _ love you.” 

_ “Oh!”  _ A grin rises like the sun across Neville’s face. He blinks rapidly, but doesn't look away. He doesn't drop the flowers. He doesn't even fumble them. He presses them to Draco’s chest. “Take these.” 

“Oh, right.” Draco releases his hold on Neville and then he  _ does  _ fumble the flowers a bit, but he takes them and then tilts his face up readily when Neville mirrors him by placing his hands on either side of Draco’s face and guiding him in for another stupid, grinning kiss. 

They part. 

“I really love you, too,” Neville says. 

Neither of them notice the sighs from the house elves crowded in the doorway behind them. 

 

***

 

On Monday morning, after a quick trip home to check on the kittens and read the note his neighbor Letitia left him assuring him that she took good care of them while he was gone for the weekend, Draco walks to the Gallipot with a spring in his step. 

It’s actually a gorgeous day, though he’s certain that he wouldn’t notice if a hurricane blew through Hogsmeade. 

He had woken that morning in the arms of a man who loves him. Who he loves back. And he  _ said so,  _ and it had been completely perfect--picturesque, even. It had felt  _ real,  _ and settled, and true. Draco hadn’t even paused to wonder when the other shoe was going to drop. He wasn’t doing it now, either. 

He felt like a twat for thinking it, but he genuinely couldn’t wait to tell his therapist. Anjali was going to be extremely pleased. 

Whatever soft, steady contentment had settled over Draco the moment he arrived at Terrace House had stayed with him all weekend. It didn’t appear to be budging.

On Sunday evening, he had said to Neville, “I think this is the best place I have ever been.” 

Neville had been thrilled by this. He said, “I don’t think I want to come back here without you, honestly.” 

There had been incredible sex after that. There had been incredible sex for two solid  _ days.  _ It had been like their first weekend together, but injected with extra strength pepper-up potion plus a dash of amortentia. 

After the time in Boston, Draco had gone back out into the world feeling as if he had been baptized in fire, exposed both for too long and not for long enough to a form of kindness and sweetness that had burned away some terrible and essential part of him that he’d been clinging to. It had been a hollowing out, and he had needed to fill up all the cracks again after. This time was like that, but now Draco didn’t walk into the world raw and abraded. He did it tied into invisible armor. Coated in honey. Full of a sureness he hadn’t been aware he could feel.  

Draco walked to work feeling strong and light at the same time, which was why it was, as Golda put it later,  _ such a goddamned kick in the bloody crotch _ when he arrived on the block to find a mob of Aurors being shouted at by Golda herself, and the storefront to Gooseberry’s Gallipot simply  _ gone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on twitter @Meansgirlwrites!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for continuing to read this fic, you guys, and for all the lovely comments. You are all the wind beneath my wings, as always. So, this chapter was going to be longer, but it seems that the last bit is more of a Chapter 14 thing! So there will still be 14 total chapters for this story- and maybe a little epilogue? But we're so so so close to the end! I'm sad and happy and excited and I love you all!

“I don’t want to fight about it.” 

“We aren’t fighting about it,” Nevllle insists, following Draco around the flat. 

Draco is busying himself with cleaning every single corner of the place the muggle way. 

“I think you would like to fight about it,” Draco says, “because you keep bringing it up.” He attacks the top of the trim over the single window in his bathroom with a soapy sponge. “Can you believe how dirty things get? Could I borrow a house elf for all this?” 

“Yes,” Neville agrees absently. “I only keep bringing it up because I’m completely terrified that someone is going to kill you.”

At this, Draco stops scrubbing and sighs. The hand holding the sponge drops to his side. He tosses the sponge into the bathtub, and steps down off the toilet lid. 

“No one is going to kill me,” he says, stepping into Neville’s space. 

Neville sighs too, and leans heavily on his hands, gripping either side of the doorjamb. “The Aurors—”

“The  _ Aurors,”  _ Draco scoffs. He rips his yellow rubber gloves off his hands and smacks Neville in the chest with them before ducking under Neville’s arm and heading down the hallway toward his sitting room.

Neville hangs there in the doorway to the loo for another moment. He closes his eyes and takes deep, calming breaths before shoving himself upright again and following Draco’s path. He finds him fluffing the sofa cushions. 

“Dean is one of the Aurors who is concerned for your safety.  _ Dean.” _

“You said that earlier. Three times.” Draco stops fluffing and sits on the sofa to face Neville with his arms crossed. “Look at my flat,” he says haughtily. “It’s pristine. I can’t leave it, I need to stay and enjoy it.” 

As much as he doesn't want to give Draco the satisfaction, Neville laughs and gestures around the flat. There are piles of abandoned cleaning supplies everywhere. In fact, he can map their argument by following the path of discarded cloths and sponges. The cats have made a complete mess of a pile of papers Draco had moved from the desk to the floor. 

“This is a mess,” Neville says. “You know what’s not a mess? At least not on the western side?” 

“Terrace House,” Draco grumbles. “Yes, I know.” 

Neville joins him on the sofa and takes his hands. “Your skin feels weird.” 

“Muggle gloves are disgusting,” Draco replies. “No wicking or softening charms, just  _ rubber. _ Distasteful.” 

Neville rolls his eyes. They both know that Draco has a fondness, a weird fetish, for using mundane muggle items in his everyday life. He probably loves the gloves. “So stop scrubbing this place like you have any clue what you’re doing, and let me—” 

“Sweetheart,” Draco says, voice just shy of shaking in frustration and annoyance. Neville blinks at the use of the endearment outside of the context of sex; it’s a first. Draco takes Neville’s face in his damp, pruny hands. “I am  _ not. Going.  _ That’s final. It’s  _ final.” _

“Will you allow an Auror detail, then?” 

Draco takes his hands away from Neville’s face to cover his own and screams into them. 

“Draco,  _ please.” _

“Aurors want me dead just as much as those NMS cretins,” Draco says into his palms. 

Neville gently peels Draco’s hands away and holds them. He runs his lips soothingly over Draco’s knuckles. “That’s not true,” he says.

Draco draws a shaky breath and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. Neville’s chest aches. Draco has some very specific tells when he’s close to tears. 

“I hate this,” Draco says, still not making eye contact. 

“I know you hate it,” Neville says quietly. 

“It had to happen after we had such a perfect—” 

“It was  _ still _ perfect,” Neville interrupts. “It  _ was.”  _

Draco finally looks at him. “I know.” He sighs. “I need to go to Anjali in the morning.” 

“I’ll go with you.” 

“You have to work!” Draco shakes his hands out of Neville’s grip, pulling away. “You can’t babysit me. I don’t  _ need  _ you to babysit me. And no offense  _ darling _ ,” the  _ endearment _ again, “but unless you have a giant fuck-off sword in your back pocket, I’m not sure what you think you could do that I couldn’t in the event of an attack by radical wizards who want to throw me in a hole.” 

Neville keeps himself from squirming, but just barely. “I’m...bigger? Intimidating? Failing that, we could end up in the hole together and keep each other company until fucking Harry Potter saves us. Draco, Sprout will understand if I—” 

“Stop,” Draco says. His voice is quiet, but firm. “No. Okay? No. I’ll...I’ll apparate into Anjali’s office. I’ll call her on the telephone to arrange it first, and I won’t walk on the street. I’ll just apparate to her, have my appointment, and then come home the same way.  _ I promise.”  _

“And what are you going to do for the rest of the investigation?”

“Entertain myself. Here. In my lovely clean flat.” 

Neville sighs. “Will you at least let me stay here with you?” 

“Oh.” Draco crawls into his lap immediately, like one of the cats looking for a cuddle. Neville readily provides him with the circle of his arms. Draco settles there and grips Neville by the shoulders. “Look, I’m not an idiot, of course I want you to stay with me. I’d rather set myself on fire than be alone right now, and we had planned to see each other tonight anyway. I’m not changing that plan just because some arseholes hexed my workplace and made it disappear for the time being.” 

“And possibly want you dead.” 

“And that.”

Neville searches Draco’s face, desperate for some sign that he would want Neville to press just a  _ little  _ further, but sees nothing but resolve. If he keeps trying to get Draco to move into Terrace House for his own safety, Draco is going to shut down. Neville knows this with absolute certainty. 

Somewhere in his psyche, a small voice that sounds like his Head House Elf whispers that, if he pushes  _ now,  _  getting Draco to move in for good later will be that much harder. Neville viciously tells the Mizzy in his mind to  _ shut it.  _

“Hey,” Draco says, interrupting Neville’s train of thought. “I still love you.”

Neville feels a bit like melting. He buries his face in Draco’s neck and holds him tighter. “I still love you, too.” 

“Sorry I’m so terrible,” Draco says to the top of his head. 

“You’re not,” Neville murmurs. “But please don’t call me sweetheart and darling when you’re being cross with me.” 

“Sorry,” Draco says again, squeezing. 

Neville squeezes him back. “S’alright.”

“Shit,” Draco mutters. “My flat’s a complete wreck.”

 

***

 

Neville goes to work the next day, having kissed Draco and two kittens goodbye at the door, and is a nervous wreck for all of it. He has never once in his life disliked Hogwarts, but for this one day he  _ hates _ it. 

Neville doesn't own a muggle mobile phone, and neither does Draco. But even if they both did and could conveniently communicate with just a few presses of a keyboard, it wouldn’t work while Neville is on the grounds. It’s completely irrational to be angry at the school for it, but here Neville is, angrily shoveling the Hogwarts house elves’ best lunch effort into his mouth, face like a thundercloud. 

“Buck up, young man,” Professor Sprout says from his side.  _ “Your _ young man will come through the other side of this mess. We’re all still working to do so, all these years later, and we all do it in our own way.”

Neville flashed her a weak smile. He had blurted out the particulars of the situation after his third mistake that morning prompted her to brew a pot of tea, sit him down, and tell him that it was time to ask someone to help him through whatever was bothering him. It had been a strange thing; Neville felt as though he had finally found himself on equal footing with his former mentor, while at the same time feeling all of eleven years old again. Only, this time it wasn’t that a snotty boy had taunted him about his Remembrall and Professor Sprout had found him trying not to cry out behind greenhouse four. It was that the stupid snotty gorgeous lovely man had gone and insisted that Neville trust him with his own safety. 

“Well this is poetic,” Sprout had teased, once Neville had finished telling her the story: That he was in fact gay, in a relationship with Draco Malfoy specifically, and that just the day before the radical group that had hexed the Gallipot had been found to have several ongoing kidnapping plots in various stages of planning, including one to take out both free Malfoys. 

Her joke hadn’t made Neville laugh, but it had been nice that she tried. The tea had helped a bit.

Neville is about to turn and say something sociable to make up for his lackluster performance as a lunch partner so far, when the staff room door opens and the Headmistress pokes her head inside. 

“Longbottom,” she says, uncharacteristically out of breath. 

Neville stands; the slightly off-kilter perch of McGonagall’s hat and the concern in her eyes are instantly alarming— his former head of house is rarely, if ever, flustered. 

“Come with me.”

Neville feels himself go cold, knowing that something has happened to Draco even before he leaves the staffroom to find a disheveled, red-eyed Pansy Parkinson waiting for him. 

“No,” Neville chokes. 

Pansy shakes her head and waves her hands frantically. “They didn’t get him! And he’s alive!” 

_ “He’s alive?”  _ Neville is incredulous. “What does  _ that _ mean? He’s  _ hurt?”  _

“Yes,” Pansy says, level and calm despite her appearance. “He is hurt. I only know because Justin was on shift when he was brought in to Mungo’s. He’s in spell damage, but—”

“I fucking told him,” Neville snarls, making to head toward the hallway that will get him out of the castle even as anger and fear fill him in a flood. “I  _ told _ him.” 

“I know,” Pansy says, moving to follow. “I know but—”

“I’m going to kill him myself when I get to St. Mungo’s” Neville snaps, wheeling on her. “I swear, I am. Of all the stubborn, arrogant—”

“Professor Longbottom,” McGonnagall interrupts, her words using his title, while the snap in her tone tone admonishes him as if time had stood still for the better part of a decade. Neville flinches and gets himself under control. “Compose yourself,” she says, gentler now that she has his attention. “You will never forgive yourself if you arrive saying  _ I told you so.” _

“You won’t be able to say anything to him yet,” Pansy says, her hands rising and falling in a gesture of helpless frustration. “He’s out cold, and they don’t know when he’ll wake up.”

The fight bleeds out of Neville as quickly as it filled him, and he very badly wants to sit down and cry. Instead of doing that, he holds himself tall and stiff against the nauseating waves of fear and asks, “What did they do to him?” 

“I’ll explain on the way to the Headmistress’ office; We can floo.” 

“Right,” Neville says, embarrassed that he had apparently planned to walk all the way to the end of the Hogwarts wards in order to apparate. 

“There now,” McGonnagall says, patting him on the arm and then using the same hand to steer him. “Buck up.” 

Neville would prefer to never hear that phrase again. 

 

***

 

Pansy tells Neville that whoever tried to take Draco attempted to do it the muggle way in order to avoid spell tracing. Draco was attacked outside Neville’s flat. What he had been doing at Neville’s flat, when the plan had been to apparate straight to his own, was anyone’s guess. 

He had been knocked about pretty badly, and was hit rather hard on the head with a blunt object. Potion residue around the scene indicated that he had used it on his would-be kidnappers somehow. The Healers’ best guess was that it was a magical equivalent to pepper spray, but nothing currently available on the market. He had likely flung it in the eyes of one or more of the people attacking him. He had also thought quickly and used an unknown but evidently useful spell to stamp his name and the word  _ HELP _ across the door to Neville’s building in a dripping white paint that so far no one has been able to remove. 

The Auror stationed at the door to Draco’s room at the hospital tells Neville that they’re pretty sure the kidnappers gave up on trying to snatch him and hit him with a minor curse which had then knocked Draco to the ground, causing him to hit his head again. 

The Healers tell Neville that Draco has a concussion and is in a magically induced coma while diagnostic spells are being performed at regular intervals. The prognosis is very good, they assure him. There’s no lasting spell damage; his placement in that ward had been a precaution while they ruled out magical maladies. He would be moved, once awake, to the general ward. They would allow him to wake once swelling abated.

Neville is left alone with Draco’s sleeping form within moments of his arrival at Mungo’s. Pansy more or less deposits him there before telling him she’ll return as soon as she has seen to her daughters. 

“No one will fuss that you’re here,” she assures him. “Justin has it in hand, alright?” She pecks him absently on the cheek, which surprises him, but she’s gone so quickly she doesn't notice his wide eyes. 

Justin pokes his head in and tells Neville to ask for him should he need anything, and then has to dash away. 

The Auror doesn't say much, but he knows who Neville is, and gives him a little half-smile and says “I’m just here to keep watch, mate. Someone who actually knows something will be along soon, yeah?”

So, with a swirl of medical jargon echoing between his ears, and the vague feeling that he’s forgotten something, Neville sits and stares at Draco’s profile and quietly loses his mind. All he can think of at first, incongruously, is the way he woke up on Sunday morning to the sensation of Draco’s index finger tracing along the shell of his ear. He reaches out and touches Draco there, relieved to find that his skin is warm.

He remembers, too, the way Draco’s pulse had thrummed under his fingers minutes later, as Nevilled pressed his wrists to the mattress. Neville circles the wrist closest to him with his fingers and lets out a long, shuddering breath that feels like the first he’s managed to complete in  _ days.  _

Neville sits and stares and holds Draco’s wrist until a Healer wanders in to run the routine spells. 

Neville feels stupid for not asking before, but it occurs to him then to ask, “Has someone been in touch with his mum?”

“Pardon?” The Healer doesn't even look at Neville, which is  _ particularly  _ galling since Neville recognizes him from years of visiting his own parents on this exact hall. 

Neville is very near his snapping point, which most people are unaware he  _ has,  _ but this Healer is about to find out about it, frankly, if he doesn't—  Neville takes a breath and takes his hand off Draco’s wrist so he won’t squeeze it. 

“I asked,” he says, keeping his voice pleasant, “if anyone had called Mister Malfoy’s mother. I would expect her to be here.” 

“Hmm.” The Healer picks up a sheaf of notes attached to Draco’s bed. “I don’t see a note,” he says. He finally glances at Neville with an absent smile. “I’ll check in with the mediwitches, see if one of them attempted a floo call or owl.”

“They prefer medistaff. There are people of all genders in nursing roles,” Neville says, injecting his voice with a little Malfoyan haughtiness. 

The Healer clearly doesn't hear him, and wanders out. Neville rolls his eyes. 

A few minutes later, one of the medistaff arrives. “Healer Brown told us you were asking about next of kin.” 

“Yes,” Neville says. “His mother?”

“Right,” they nod. “I attempted to contact her a few times, but no luck, I’m afraid. We’ll keep trying.” 

Neville shoots them a grateful smile. “Thanks,” he says. “I wouldn’t know how to find her, but I know she would want to—” 

“Nev?” 

Neville peers around the medistaff at Dean Thomas, who is in uniform and standing in the doorway. “Dean, hey.”

“Did I hear correctly, no one has been in contact with Narcissa Malfoy?” Dean asks, stepping inside and moving to pull the door closed behind him. 

“Not on our end, sir,” the medistaff says, starting to look a bit fretful in the face of a MLE uniform. 

Dean stops and pokes his head back out the door to confer with the Auror there. 

Neville stands, unsure why, but feeling like he ought to be ready to do something. After the attack on the Gallipot, Dean had shared as much detail as he could with Draco and Neville, which hadn’t been a lot— but as the target of a kidnapping plot Draco had needed to know that evidence of said plot had been uncovered. Last Neville had heard, an Auror or two had been sent to notify and do a welfare check on Narcissa yesterday morning. 

Now, Dean enters the room again and asks the medistaff to give them some privacy. He shuts the door once they’ve gone. “I’ve asked Auror Lewis to contact the Aurors who spoke with Mrs. Malfoy yesterday. Possibly she’s already in contact with us, since someone on our end would have tried getting in touch when this was reported. Draco didn’t mention anything to you about her plans?”

“No,” Neville says. He feels numb and anxious, with sweaty palms and a prickle at his neck. “This all happened so fast, I...I don’t know if he had a chance to speak with her yesterday.” 

“It’s a mess,” Dean says. “I’m sorry this happened to him.” 

“Yeah,” Neville chokes. He looks to Draco’s pale, still face and clears his throat. “Me, too.” 

Dean sighs. “I just popped by to check in. I’ve got to get back to the Ministry for a meeting. Floo the office if you need anything, alright? Even if it’s just a friend.” 

“Thanks Dean,” Neville says, accepting Dean’s proffered hand and shaking it. “I will.”

Soon, Neville is alone again— but not for long. 

Auror Lewis pokes his head in before an hour passes. “Is Auror Thomas still about?” 

“No, he had a meeting and left a while ago.” Neville can see in the young Auror’s expression that Lewis came in braced to deliver bad news to a superior. 

“Shit,” the Auror grits, then clears his throat, glancing nervously between Neville and the bed where Draco sleeps. “I’ll need to call him. Turns out no one’s contacted his mum.”

“They can’t reach her?” 

“No, they didn’t  _ try,  _ sir”

Neville jumps to his feet in a shot.  _ “What?” _

“I know,” the Auror says, wincing. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you. I need to put in a call—” 

“You need to fuck  _ off,”  _ Neville snaps, shoving past him. “I’ll bloody do it.”

“Er—” Lewis scuttles after Neville, who marches down the hall toward the bank of fireplaces for public floo-calling. “Sir— that is, Mister Longbottom, sir. Protocol states—”

“Protocol would have had someone contacting a woman under threat when her son was attacked,” Neville snaps, wheeling on the Auror. “Get back to his door! No one’s watching him! Isn’t that your  _ job?” _

“Sir—” 

“No,” Neville says, then swallows against the shake in his voice. “No, I don’t want to hear it. Your department is clearly full of people who may as well be part of the group who did this.” Saying it out loud, echoing Draco’s fear from the day before, sends a feeling like ice sinking to the pit of Neville’s stomach. Neville had insisted it wasn’t true, and yet... “If it’s malice or incompetence, I don’t care. Just get back to that door while I make a call to Harry Potter, and so help me  _ god _ if anything happens to that man in there while I’m gone—”

Auror Lewis throws his hands up, placating. “I’ll go, sir. I will. Please, don’t— Don’t tell Auror Potter that I— It wasn’t my— I’ll just be going.” 

He scurried off and Neville pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. The poor kid can’t be much older than nineteen; a rookie with a grunt work assignment, just standing around a hallway in St. Mungo’s for hours. It certainly wouldn’t have been his job to coordinate a response after an attack like this one. Neville could have been a little kinder to him, probably. The rest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, on the other hand, is about to become very aware of his displeasure. 

 

***

 

It’s a matter of minutes until Harry arrives with Ron in tow, plus three additional Aurors Neville vaguely recognizes from pub nights and the birthday party the month before. Neville has calmed a bit since ending the floo call, but Ron is wide-eyed as they arrive on the ward. 

“Mate,” he says. “I could hear you shouting from my office all the way down the hall.”

“Well,” Neville says, refusing to look sheepish. “Someone needed to...to do something.” 

“No, it was good,” Ron says quickly, nodding his head. “Very uh- well, if any students get out of line once Hogwarts starts up, just get out the shouty Neville voice. It’s bloody effective.”

“Look,” Harry interrupts then, having sent the three Aurors hovering behind him to go speak with Lewis down the hall. “It’s a major cock up, no one making an effort to speak with Narcissa Malfoy. Those three are going to be doing legwork on this case now. We had a different team on it and they went over to her place after the Gallipot incident. I read their reports on my way out the door to get here—  just a bunch of speculation about what she’s up to. Completely irrelevant, no attempts to investigate with the aim of protecting her. They didn’t even make direct contact with her yesterday. I couldn’t tell you what’s being said to them now, but the higher ups aren’t happy and they were behind the closed door of the Head Auror’s office when I left.”

“Good,” Neville snaps. “Great. So now there are members of MLE on the side of actual terrorists?”

“Well, not on the  _ side of,”  _ Ron hedges. “I mean, it’s prejudice of course, but it’s not the same as  _ siding with _ those New Magic Society whackjobs, is it?” 

_ “Isn’t it?” _ Neville throws up his hands. “It may as well be! What if Draco’s mother’s been kidnapped? What if she’s been killed?”  _ It’ll destroy him,  _ Neville thinks, and he wants to hit something. Maybe Ron’s face, which clearly communicates how much it wouldn’t bother him to find out that Narcissa Malfoy is dead in a ditch somewhere.

“We’re looking into it,” Harry says before Ron can say anything more. He places a hand on Neville’s shoulder in what Neville thinks he probably means in a reassuring way. But Harry is awkward, always has been, and isn’t great at comforting people. Neville feels vaguely comforted anyway; he knows Harry is disgusted by this sort of vigilante justice nonsense. 

“I need to get back to him,” Neville says after a moment. “No offense, but the bloke you all have sat outside the door is basically twelve.”

“Oh, Lewis?” Ron giggles. “Don’t be ageist, Nev. He’s twenty, and one of the fastest bastards with a wand I’ve ever seen. Totally starstruck by this one.” Ron punches Harry on the shoulder as they all make their way down the hall. “And me, by association. He was just a little firstie during the war.  _ Definitely _ knows who you are. You probably broke his sweet, young heart when you went all ogre.”

Neville winces. “Well.”

“Point being,” Harry says. “You can relax. He’ll keep Malfoy safe. Isn’t that right, Lewis?”

Auror Lewis straightens as they approach, and though he couldn’t have a clue what they were just saying he snaps out a, “That’s right, Auror Potter, sir.” 

Harry grins. “I’m in charge of this case now,” he says. “With the other team screwing things up the way they have so far, Head Auror says he wants the optics of, well, me. But I would have wanted it anyway. I can’t stand these NMS dickheads, can I Ron?” 

“He can’t stand ‘em,” Ron chimes in, turning from his conversation with the other Aurors. 

Harry’s smile shifts into a smirk and Neville can’t help but smile weakly back. Harry can be a bit weird sometimes, a bit reserved and awkward, like he isn’t sure how to talk to people who aren’t Weasleys or Weasley-adjacent. But sometimes he gets a look about him, and it’s like his magic remembers it belongs to the Chosen One or something and then takes over. In Neville’s experience, and according to the papers and the stories told over pints at the pub, it usually results in justice of some kind being handily served. Harry’s got that look now, and as much as Neville would like for things to be one hundred percent less awful and dangerous, seeing it is a comfort. 

“I need to go,” Harry says. “Make sure people are doing their jobs. I think you’re quite safe here, as is Malfoy. But if it would make you feel better to have, I dunno, a bejewelled sword or whatever—” 

Neville is shocked into a snort of laughter. Harry  _ never _ makes those sort of jokes. “Oh, shut it,” he grumbles.

“I’m just saying, we could pull some strings.” 

Neville rolls his eyes. “No, thanks. Keep me updated, yeah?”

“Of course,” Harry says, and then corrals the gathered Aurors while Neville heads into the room where Draco still sleeps.

 

***

 

Neville is startled a couple of hours later when Pansy Parkinson bursts into the room carrying a takeaway bag, brandishing it at Neville like a weapon. 

“What did you do?” She demands, shaking the paper bag menacingly. “People are going mad! The Wizarding Wireless is saying Narcissa Malfoy might have been  _ kidnapped?” _

“It is?” Neville rears back.  _ “Has  _ she been? Harry said he would keep me—”

“No, you idiot!” Pansy shrieks. “I just spoke with her on a floo call! She’s in fucking  _ China _ visiting some old bag of a former Death Eater’s wife or some nonsense, you know they do that from time to time? It’s  _ very  _ common for women of Narcissa’s circle to pop over to Asia or France or wherever the smarter arseholes ran off to once the dust settled!”

_ “What?” _

Pansy groans. “My god,” she says. “Everyone is very stupid. Especially the Aurory. Here,” she crosses the room and plops the takeaway bag in Neville’s lap. “I brought you supper. It’s getting late, and I knew it was unlikely you thought to feed yourself.” 

Neville blinks. “That’s very nice of you.” 

“Yes well,” Pansy sneers, her lips pinching momentarily. “You and this one are a matched set. Completely useless.” 

Neville doesn't open the bag of food. “Please explain what’s going on.” 

“Well,” Pansy huffs, settling herself on the edge of Draco’s bed so she can face Neville and also reach into the bag and pull out a wrapped sandwich. “You don’t mind, do you? I brought several and I’m starved.” 

“Go ahead.”

“Great. Nursing two infants makes one hungrier than you can imagine.” Pansy unwraps and takes a bite of a sandwich, chewing with great annoyance for a moment before speaking imperiously through a mouthful. “Right, so, most Death Eater and Death Eater  _ adjacent _ people and families, once they managed to avoid imprisonment, or finished their time, or their probation or what have you, did not stick around jolly old England. You are aware of this, yes?”

Neville had been aware of this but hadn’t thought much about it. He nods, motioning for Pansy to continue. 

“Eat,” she commands and then waits for Neville to obey before continuing. “Well what you might not realize is that the ones who  _ did  _ stay, like the Malfoys and my family, half the Greengrasses and the Zabinis and so on— well, some of us— some of  _ them, _ really, I know it’s tricky for people to understand but sharing a surname doesn't  _ actually _ mean I agreed with what my brother was doing, or my— it’s beside the point. If you and I are to be friends I am sure we’ll have this out someday but not now. Merlin, this sandwich is delicious.” Pansy pauses for breath. “Look, this is tedious. Narcissa was visiting a Death Eater friend in China, because that’s the main way to conduct any sort of decent social life as a pureblood snob who is also a social pariah. That is the short version. I knew she was there, because my cousin Daphne’s mother knew she was there, and Daphne got in touch with me via floo when I went back home this afternoon and she said that there were rumours of Aurors loitering around Narcissa’s last night, and wasn’t that  _ strange  _ considering she’s in Beijing.” 

Pansy pauses again for breath, so Neville swallows quickly to jump in. “And does she know what’s happened?”

“Well she does  _ now,” _ Pansy snaps. “I floo called her. Meanwhile some fool in the DMLE leaked information to the Wireless that Narcissa may have been kidnapped. There’s all  _ sorts _ of wild speculation. Not that it matters. When I ended the call with her she was heading to the consulate to arrange for safe passage home via portkey. The Aurors will need to meet her, so I sent a message to that Thomas fellow you’re friends with. Here’s hoping whoever they send isn’t an anti-reform extremist or a complete idiot or both.” 

Neville eats and listens to Pansy rant on, updating him on everything from how Draco’s kittens were when she checked on them (perfectly fine) to what she’s heard from Hogwarts (Neville should take all the time he needs) to how annoying her mother-in-law is being (very). 

It’s nice to have company. 

 

***

 

Neville falls asleep slumped in the chair beside Draco’s bed, his arm outstretched so he can keep one hand pressed Draco’s warm, delicate wrist. 

He wakes with a start when the door to the room shuts. He blinks into the dim light— it’s the early morning hours, he thinks. He’s fuzzy for a moment, but the sight of Narcissa Malfoy standing just inside the door blasts the cobwebs away better than a double dose of Pepper-Up potion could. 

“Oh,” she says. 

At the same time that Neville says, “Er.”

There is a long silence, into which Neville’s heart pounds. He feels frozen. Should he take his hand off of Draco? They haven’t discussed the specifics of when and how he would tell his mother that he was involved with someone. Is it too late to pretend he wasn’t just— 

“I knew he was seeing someone,” Narcissa says, breaking the tense silence. “A mother knows. He thought he hid it well, I think, but. A mother does know.” 

Neville can’t think of what to say. 

“I am, of course,  _ surprised,” _ Narcissa continues. “I certainly never expected...well.”

“Me,” Neville rasps. He clears his throat. 

“Quite,” Narcissa says. She reaches up to remove her cloak; an odd thing to wear in August, but the Malfoys always had followed odd, outdated customs when it came to style. With it hung by the door, Narcissa moves closer to the bed. “I spoke to the Healer. Pansy’s husband.”

“He’ll be alright,” Neville says lamely, tearing his eyes away from her to look at Draco’s still face. 

“Yes,” she says, and takes a seat on the chair situated to the other side of the bed. “Well, now that I’m here, I suppose you can go home.” 

“Absolutely not,” Neville says, only a little shocked by the automatic way it leaves his mouth, the firmness in his voice. 

Narcissa Malfoy arches one elegant blonde eyebrow. “Really?”

“Sorry,” Neville says, not sorry at all and not bothering to try and sound it. That eyebrow is  _ so _ familiar. 

Narcissa considers him for a moment, then shrugs one shoulder in a gesture that, so soon after the eyebrow move, is so similar to Draco’s own method of deflecting discomfort that Neville has to bite back a smirk. If he can just remember that this woman is probably the reason Draco made it through childhood with his humanity intact, if somewhat bruised, then he can probably make it through this. 

Then again, Neville isn’t sure how long he’s going to have to sit there in silence with the sister of the woman who tortured his own mother nearly to death, and try as he might, he can’t forget that Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy shared parents, grew up in the same house, have the same bloodless complexion and fine cheekbones. 

After what feels like an eternity, Narcissa speaks again. “You really are...dating my son.” 

Neville glances to Draco’s face, half expecting his eyes to fly open so he can keep this particular conversation from happening. Neville knows he could try and wiggle out of it, but he’s not the best at that sort of thing and it’s going to come out sooner or later. Plus, he’s tired. “Yep,” he says after a beat, then winces. “I mean, yes, I am.” He braces himself for what comes next.

Narcissa’s eyes flick to Neville and then back to Draco. Her thin hands cover Draco’s. She sighs. “Well, alright,” she murmurs. 

Neville blinks at her profile, unsure of what he’s supposed to say now. He settles on saying nothing and turns his own gaze to Draco’s face. He figures he can just pretend he and Narcissa Malfoy aren’t sitting across from each other, holding Draco’s hands in theirs. 

But the minutes feel like hours, and Neville can feel himself beginning to panic. He should say  _ something. _

He’s just working up the nerve to speak when Narcissa interrupts his frantic thoughts. 

“Your mother was a good woman,” she says. 

Neville nearly chokes on the air he’s breathing.  _ “What?” _

“I knew her when we were girls,” Narcissa continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Neville’s heart has fallen out of his chest. “And of course we were at school together. She was…very intelligent. Quite pretty. I liked her.” 

“You...did?”

“I did.” 

Neville swallows hard. He wishes he could be the sort of person to rage and scream and not care about making a scene. He wishes he could feel very angry at this person in particular; gather up all his hatred for the Lestranges and spew it at Draco’s stupid mum, who is  _ looking  _ at him again. 

There’s no point. Neville could demand to know what could have happened to a person to make them follow a man who ordered the torture and deaths of her childhood friends. But no answer could ever make sense. No answer could take any of it back. 

“I’m...sorry for your loss,” Narcissa says. 

“Thanks,” Neville croaks. “I guess.”

The pain and horror of two wars sits in the room with them. Narcissa Malfoy, who was the cause of her fair share of both, ignores their weight and makes small talk.

“I am aware that you are going to teach at Hogwarts.”

Neville nods, unable to find his voice again. 

“That’s very good,” Narcissa murmurs. 

This is now the strangest conversation Neville has ever had. Finally, something to beat the one he had with Draco the morning after he unknowingly pulled him at a bar in Boston. Wonders will truly  _ never _ cease. He would laugh hysterically if he could just stop having this panic attack. 

“Of course, much of the news I hear of  _ polite  _ circles is second or third hand,” Narcissa muses. “But I also heard that you are in the process of restoring Terrace House. This is a noble undertaking; preserving our heritage is of utmost importance, as I’m sure your grandmother taught you. She was formidable. I was sorry to hear of her passing.”

_ Bollocks, _ Neville thinks, remembering the way Draco had crowed about how much Narcissa loathed being spoken over by Gran in the planning of boring high society events back before the war. He nods all the same. 

“I suppose you will be re-establishing your House, the Longbottom family, then,” Narcissa goes on. Her voice is so strange- she speaks formally, in soft, even tones, with a steeliness under it all. It’s off-putting. 

“I guess?” Neville ventures, not sure what that means, and internally squirming at her cold delivery.

“You will want children, of course.”

Neville’s eyes widen. “Well—”

“So you will be in need of a wife eventually, I would think.” 

“Not really,” Neville says, cutting her off before she can take that line of conversation any further. “I have no interest in that sort of arrangement.” 

“Then how do you propose to grow your family?” 

Neville can’t help but boggle at her. He could tell her that really, he’s never gotten very far in this sort of planning. He’s happy with his creaky house full of elves with too much time on their hands. He’s happy with his life as it is now, and he’s always figured that he’d let the rest come as it may. How to explain that to the kind of person who wishes her gay son would ignore his true nature and marry a witch solely to continue a bloodline? A person who, regardless of whatever tenuous tea time agreement she had given Draco last week, had threatened to manipulate the situation with money? 

He could try, but in all honesty Neville has no desire to do so. It’s  _ none of her business. _

After a while, Neville clears his throat. “I’m a family of one, for now,” he says. “That’s fine with me. I’m not going to drop Draco in favor of some witch, if that’s what you’re driving at. And sorry if you don’t like it, but he probably isn’t going to drop me, either.”

“Hm.” 

Narcissa lets the subject drop. Neville has to restrain himself from physically sagging in relief. 

She breaks the silence again, though. 

“Do you love him?”

She isn’t looking at Neville. She’s staring at Draco. Neville smiles, watching her watching him when he says “Yes. Sort of desperately, actually.”

Narcissa’s lips twitch. She doesn't look at Neville. “Good.”

 

***

 

Justin shows up with food eventually, stopping in at the end of his shift to save Neville by making awkward small talk with Draco’s mother while they all pick at their meal. 

Luna pokes her head in late in the evening, her eyes widening for a moment when she notices Narcissa there. Neville excuses himself quietly and meets her in the hallway. 

“You don’t need to stay,” he murmurs. “Thank you for checking on us.” 

“Of course,” Luna says, and hugs him. “She makes me uneasy. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you ninny,” Neville admonishes gently. “You of all people don’t need to. I’ll try to floo call you tomorrow, yeah? Merlin, what day is tomorrow? What day is it right now?” 

Luna squeezes him tightly and tells him it’s Wednesday and that he should consider going home for some real sleep. 

Neville just shakes his head. Narcissa has been nearly silent for the long hours she’s been here, but Neville can see the desperation in her eyes, and he’s convinced that if he leaves, Draco will have been spirited off, halfway to China by the time he returns. 

“Alright,” Luna concedes. “Fair enough. I’ll bring a restful squid ink tincture tomorrow evening. Pansy says they’re probably going to let Draco wake up by then.” 

“You spoke to Pansy?”

Luna gets a very Dumbleorean twinkle, and gives Neville a poke in the side. “Don’t look so frightened.” 

Once she’s gone, Neville lets himself lean up against the wall outside Draco’s room for a while, steeling himself before going back in to face Narcissa Malfoy’s fragile silence. 

But when he does get back into the room, he finds that Narcissa has fallen asleep in her chair. She’s still got that perfect posture, but has bent an elbow against the arm of the chair, propping her cheek on one fist. Neville swallows. It’s strange to see her vulnerable like this. But then, everything the last few days has been strange. 

Neville feels vaguely annoyed about the fact that mostly what he’s done is make uncomfortable conversation and wait around for information on an investigation that has nothing whatsoever to do with him. He feels oddly disconnected from it. At this point, he’s used to not being in the middle of crisis. He’s grown accustomed to watching from afar, since a sizable handful of his friends had decided that the war just hadn’t been quite enough terror and exhaustion for them, and gone into the DMLE. Neville isn’t talented in defense or suited to rooting out a mystery. It’s not so much that he wants to be out there bringing justice down on the head of whoever did this to Draco. He might like to watch it happen, but he’ll hear the story from someone later. 

It’s just that he hasn’t felt quite this useless since he was a sixth year. 

Neville sighs and decides he can’t stand to sit in his stupid chair for another second. He glances furtively at Narcissa. Her eyes are closed. Her thin frame moves with gentle, even breaths. Neville sits on the edge of Draco’s bed and picks up his hand. 

“This whole thing is bollocks,” he mutters to Draco, playing with his fingers. “I’m cross with you about it.” He sighs. “Not really. But I’m furious. Just sort of in general. This is the last time you’re allowed to get grievously injured by radical terrorists. Just so you know.” 

Neville rolls his eyes at himself and slides up the bed a bit, swinging a leg up. He’s careful not to disturb Draco much. Justin assured him earlier that  _ physically _ Draco is mostly fine, but Neville can’t help but feel that he’s more fragile now than he was a few days ago. He doesn't want to jostle him. He just wants to be next to him, their shoulders touching. He can just about manage it if he leaves one foot on the floor. 

He keeps hold of Draco’s hand. Presses a kiss to the top of his head. And closes his eyes. 

 

***

 

He’s woken by Harry shaking him gently by the shoulder the next morning. Neville blinks up at him blearily for a moment before the reality of where he is hits him in a rush and he tries to scramble upright. Harry holds him steady. 

“Mrs. Malfoy has gone to change and freshen up,” he says in his Auror-voice. “The Healers will be in soon to wake up Draco. I need you to get up and get ready.” 

Neville winces as the ache in his muscles makes itself known. Harry backs away to let him sit up. Neville checks Draco’s face before looking back to Harry. Harry looks a bit awkward, but he has that grim, straight-line-for-a-mouth look he gets sometimes. “What for?”

“Dean’s team apprehended a trio of wizards outside Bromley in the early hours.”

“They’re the ones who—”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Looks like there’ll be more arrests before the week is out. It’s a sizable network; not on the scale of Voldemort’s supporters during the war. Not even close. But still, big.”

“Alright.” Neville rubs a hand over his face, feeling where his beard has gone untidy after a few days of chair sleeping. “So what do you want me for?” 

“Press conference.” 

Neville’s still half asleep, but he goes cold and suddenly feels quite clear at those words.  _ “Absolutely not,”  _ he says and hauls himself out of the bed. “For  _ what?” _

Harry’s face is stuck in a wince. “I know.” 

“I’m rubbish at them—”

“So am I—”

“I’m  _ worse—” _

“Not that much wo—”

“I don’t see what good it will do!” Neville scratches at his head and gestures with the other hand. “It’s done! You saved the day! Good!” 

Harry sighs. “I didn’t actually save the day, I was in bed when it all went down. But they want to trot me out for the Prophet and the Wireless, and they want you to come, too, seeing as—”

“When you say  _ they.”  _

“My superiors. You know. And the ministry. They’d like you to wear your Order of Merlin.” 

Neville slumps and turns away, covering his face with his hands. “Ugh, Harry.” 

“The worst of it is, they’re right.”

Neville hears this and agrees, but he walks to the room’s single window anyway and looks out of it as if he hadn’t heard. It’s early. He can see the shift change happening in the courtyard below as fresh-faced staff make their way in. 

Harry continues. “If the two of us, and Ron and Hermione, come out and make a firm statement denouncing the actions of the NMS, it will go a long way. And, I know this might be y’know, sensitive, but publicizing your relationship— “

Neville lets out a low, drawn out, furious “Fuuuuck” at the window and gently bangs his head against it. 

“I  _ know,” _ Harry groans behind him. 

And Harry does know. In the summer after the war, Harry, his inner circle, and Neville went through a lot of absolutely absurd press-related nightmares together. They all hated it, for some of the same reasons, and of course for some very different ones. It had been a rough half-year period. There had been a lot of drinking and lost sleep. A lot of weird, emotionally stunted bonding. Neville feels the vague sense of queasiness he carried around in those months, building now in his gut. He closes his eyes against it. 

“I won’t say anything Draco doesn't want me to say,” Neville says after a while. “I won’t do it until he’s awake.” 

He hears Harry’s sigh. “I thought as much. I’ll send in the Healer.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW there was a lot of talking in this one…


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, you wonderful sweet readers. Thank you for reading.

When Draco opens his eyes, it’s to Neville’s face hovering just above his own. 

“Hey,” Neville says softly. He squeezes Draco’s hand where it rests on the bed. “They said you shouldn’t be in pain, but you might be thirsty.” 

“Mm,” Draco manages from dry lips. He tries to clear his throat, and Neville winces at the sandpapery sound. Draco doesn't wince, because he doesn't feel all that uncomfortable; it’s as if he’s waking from a brief nap with a bit of a numbing charm or something. The dryness of his lips and tongue are a distant sensation. 

“Hang on,” Neville says, and fetches a glass from  the bedside table. “There’s a straw. Little sips.”

Draco does as he’s told, and with each pull of room temperature water, the soreness of what must have been quite a long time lying in one position makes itself known. He pulls away with a cough and groans. “Ow.”

“You _are_ in pain?” Neville moves to go to the door, presumably to call the Healer. 

Draco grabs his hand, relieved when his limbs follow his thoughts into action. He’s starting to piece things together a bit in his mind, and for a moment he’d been worried about just how badly he’d been knocked around. “Just stiff,” he says. “Don’t go. What’s happened?” 

Neville settles back into the chair, his eyes darting over Draco’s face. “How much do you remember?”

“Getting punched in the fucking face,” Draco grouses, wincing as he prods at what he’s sure is a terrible bruise below his eye socket. “People just love to punch me in the face.”

“Yeah,” Neville says. “Sorry. I mean, yeah, they hit you. A lot. They tried to take you at my flat. _What_ were you doing at my flat?”

Draco remembers that-- he remembers most, if not all, of it, he thinks. But he’s feeling a bit weird and it’s hard to get his words together. “Your note,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t leave me a note?”

Neville sighs. “No.” 

Draco sags back against his pillow. He’d already figured that out. He thinks he must have realized it in the split second after the first punch connected. “I’m so stupid,” he murmurs, closing his eyes against the shame. “Truly. Just tell the Healers to put me out of my misery, I am _too stupid to live—”_

“Hey,” Neville says, moving out of his chair to sit on the bed and gather both of Draco’s hands in his. “No, don’t—”

“Ugh,” Draco rolls his eyes, but lets his hands be taken. “Don’t be _kind_ about it. It’s an amateur move, forging a note. And I _missed it._ I’m a _Slytherin,_ for Merlin’s _sake!”_

Neville’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’m happy to see you’ve woken up exactly yourself,” he says. 

“Devastatingly gorgeous and incredibly inept at adult life?”

Neville’s smile grows. “First part, yes. I’d say _a bit dramatic_ in place of the second.” He squeezes Draco’s hands. “You—  It’s Thursday. You were out for a while. I worried.”

“I’m fine,” Draco hurries to reassure him. 

“You were concussed,” Neville corrects. “You’ve been in a magically induced unconsciousness for days. Justin says you should be fine, with rest. A little irritable maybe, from the potions and charms they used to wake you.”

“I’m fine,” Draco says again, though he feels oddly frozen in place, propped up in bed letting Neville hold his hand while his brain tries to stutter back into gear. His thoughts both race and stand still, lurching around his head and confusing him. It doesn't help that Neville looks like he’s about to tell Draco that the Dark Lord has risen once again.  

Neville massages one of Draco’s palms in what he clearly means to be a soothing gesture. “Listen—” 

“Why do you look like that?” Draco snaps, suddenly frustrated. 

Neville winces. 

Draco’s heart races along with his thoughts, which are kicking back into gear alarmingly quickly, now. “I’ve never seen you look like that, what’s wrong? It’s not the assault on my person, as I’m fine now and you’ve clearly had time to sit and stare at my face. I can feel that it’s a mess. But you would be used to it. They wouldn’t have cast anything on the cuts and bruises. Spell interactions with the potions, probably the ridiculous, bastardized version of Living Death they use here in conjunction with the charms—  Oh, did Justin do it? Is Justin here? _Why do you look like that?”_

Neville pats at Draco’s hand, shaking his head. “It’s nothing,” he hedges. “Well. It’s a few things. You should rest, though—”

“Why is _my mum_ here?” Draco demands, staring over Neville’s shoulder and registering his mother’s presence literally as he speaks the words. 

He really must get his head to slow down. 

“Obvious reasons,” Neville answers, then turns back to Draco as Narcissa takes a step inside. “You were badly hurt. She was worried. We all were.” 

 _“We all?”_ Draco shakes his head to clear it. “How long was I out? How long was Mummy here?”

Neville looks concerned. “It’s Thursday, like I said, so a bit under three days. Your mother arrived in the early hours yesterday.”

Draco’s eyes dart between Neville and his mother. He settles for staring at Neville in wide-eyed horror. “Oh, _balls.”_

“Yeah,” Neville whispers. Then, out loud, he says. “Everything is alright.”

“Yes,” Narcissa finally chimes in. “Don’t work yourself into a lather, Draco dear, you need your rest, of course—” 

This is infuriating. Draco yanks Neville close with a fist in his shirt. “Did she—  Did she offer to pay you?” 

They both ignore Narcissa’s sharp, offended intake of breath. Neville shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, no.” 

“Sweetheart,” Draco echoes. “That’s my line.” Neville quirks a smile so sweet that it’s only the stimulants that keep Draco, too jittery, from just crawling into his lap. “What else is it? You look like you’re about to tell me something awful.” 

“It’s not that bad, it’s just…”

There’s a rap on the doorjamb and Neville sighs heavily.

Harry Potter hangs in the doorway, all shined up in his formal Auror uniform, Order of Merlin First Class pinned to his lapel. 

“We’ve got to do a press conference,” Neville tells Draco as he turns to face him again. “The Aurors arrested the ones who did this to you, and the hexing of the Gallipot. The Ministry’s asking Harry and I—” 

The sickle drops, and Draco wrinkles his nose. “I see. That’s...a bit distasteful, but smart.”

“Right,” Neville says, nodding. “But the thing is, they’re going to want me to talk about our, you know. Relationship.” 

“Obviously,” Draco says, because it is, and waves a hand. “Just saying we’re together gives me some credibility. It’s good PR for them. Maybe for me too, not that they give a toss. Get off the bed, I need to get up.” 

“Er—” Potter steps out of the doorway and into the room. “Malfoy, that’s probably not—”

“Draco, dear—” his mother begins. 

“Wait,” Neville says, trying to gently fight Draco’s movements out of the bed. “Wait, why?” 

“For the press conference, of course,” Draco says urgently, shoving weakly at Neville’s chest. “We have to get ready. Tell Justin to leave the bruises, they’re probably quite bad and will really drive home the message.” 

“Oh no,” Potter says, and Draco can only assume that his tragically small mind is only just now grasping the plan. “You’re not going.”

“Of _course_ I’m going, _Potter.”_ Draco snaps. “What’s the point if you don’t let the Prophet snap some photos of my battered face to show how far the lunatic fringe has gone?”

The room freezes. 

“Listen,” Potter says--whines--as Narcissa speaks as well. 

“Actually…” 

Neville finally catches and holds Draco’s hands. He looks to Potter and Draco’s mum and says, “He’s high as a kite, he can’t go before the press.” He shoots Harry a pleading look. _“Right?”_

Harry shrugs. “We have a couple hours.” 

“See?” Draco yanks a hand free to wave it at Potter. “Potter says it’s fine, can’t argue with that, can we? Boy who whatevered and all. It’s settled.”  

No one says anything, so Draco assumes that his word has been accepted as law.

“Neville, call Justin. A cocktail of just three or four potions will counteract the Wide-Eye Potion I assume they gave me, and assuage some of the side effects of the reviving charms, and I can—”

“No!” Neville shouts. Actually, Draco notes, he sort of yelps it, squeezing Draco’s hands tightly at the same time. “Stop,” he says. He addresses Harry first. “Clear it with your superiors.” To Narcissa, he says, “I’m not letting him drug himself up, he isn’t thinking clearly. But please, could you ask Justin back in here?” 

They leave, and Neville sighs, sagging in relief. Draco watches him with no small amount of shock. 

“Did you just tell my mother what to do?”

Neville shoots him a sheepish smile and looks down at their clutching hands. “It was more of a polite request.”

“Yes, and she _went,”_ Draco says. He feels as if he can’t control his own face. He knows he must look like a bulge-eyed guppy. “What the _hell_ have you two been saying to each other?”

“Nothing!” Neville cries, his fingers spasming around Draco’s. He meets Draco’s eyes again. “I promise, it was...it was nothing. She talked to me about my mum, and it was really awkward and terrible—”

Draco’s heart lurches, hard. “She _what?”_

“It wasn’t—  She wasn’t— I don’t know what she was getting at, she’s a little—” 

His grip is tight, frightened, so Draco wriggles his fingers, and once Neville realizes what he’s trying to do and releases him, he pulls his hands free and presses them to Neville’s face. Draco has a slight tremor; another side effect. 

“Breathe,” Draco says, which he knows is rich, considering how manic the potions have been making him. It’s sheer willpower that keeps him calm now, Neville’s distressed face just enough to force him to hold it together. “Take a breath. Was my mother awful to you?”

Neville follows directions and breathes deeply before he answers. “Not really, no. I think we’ve come to an understanding. Or she’s planning to destroy me. Who knows, but it’ll be fine.” 

Draco quirks a tremulous smile and Neville places his hands over Draco’s where they rest on his cheeks, then slips them down to hold onto his wrists. “Are you alright?”

Draco shudders. “No,” he says. “You’re right, I really am high. This is going to be a day for the books, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” 

Draco swallows a thousand words, and then simply tugs Neville close for a quick, dry kiss. “My breath must be appalling,” he says awkwardly when they part. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Neville murmurs, obviously trying to catch Draco’s eye as he turns his face down and away. “Daco. Seriously, I couldn’t care less about that.” 

“I didn’t want you to ever have to…” Draco sighs. Part of him wants to pull away, extract himself from Neville’s hands and get his own palms away from the warm reassurance of Neville’s skin. He should think. He should figure out what all this is going to mean. 

“It’s alright, as long as _you’re_ alright,” Neville says into the uncertain silence. 

“You had to talk to my mother.” 

Neville snorts, and Draco manages to meet his eyes and crack a smile. Neville smiles back and bumps their foreheads together. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“You missed your first week of work.” 

Neville shrugs. “I didn’t even think about it, and it’s not like there are students there yet. It’ll keep.” 

Draco scoffs. “You’ve been dating me for what, a month?”

“Two, thank you very much.” 

Draco heaves a sigh. “Right. And look at what a mess everything has become.” 

“Don’t try to tell me not to date you, you know I never listen. Besides, I know now that you’re in love with me and all.” Neville grins in response to the glare Draco gives him for that. “If I broke up with you now, I bet you’d pine for me. It would be very sad.” 

“Shut _up,”_ Draco groans, but he’s laughing as he says it. “I would...definitely pine. I’d have to move in with Pansy and sleep in her worst guest room and stare out the window, off into the distance, wistfully, for hours every day, refusing food and tea and water—”

“You should’ve gone into theater,” Neville says mildly. “Not business.” Then, “I would pine for you, too.” 

“Of course you would—” Draco’s mind screeches to a halt. “Oh god, _business.”_ He drops his hands to Neville’s shoulders. His throat feels like it might close up as reality slams into him once more. The Gallipot got hexed into nonexistence, how could he have forgotten? “My _job.”_

“It’ll all be cleaned up soon,” Neville says, reassuring. “You’ll see.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” 

“Yes, obviously. _I_ don’t know if they’ll ever get the Gallipot un-hexed. What am I, a fortune teller?”

Draco laughs, and Neville does too, and they hang onto each other in mild hysterics for a while until Neville kisses Draco quiet, pressing their lips together soft and slow, holding him close and breathing steadily through his nose until Draco relaxes into the kiss and matches his breaths. 

A tap on the door interrupts. 

“It’s my mother,” Draco whispers into the tiny space between them. “Gird your loins.” 

Neville chokes back another hysterical giggle and pulls away to put a more respectable distance between them. 

“I did hear that, dear,” Narcissa remarks as she crosses the room, Justin following close behind. 

“Sorry mother,” Draco says, not sounding it a bit and earning a raised eyebrow from her and a wink from Justin. 

“You’re completely mad,” Justin says once he finds his way to the end of Draco’s bed and takes a cursory glance at the notes hung there. “It’s a _terrible_ idea to get out of bed to go traipsing down to the Ministry for a media circus this soon after being under such strong sedative spells, to say nothing of the stimulants you’re on right now.” 

“So what,” Draco huffs. “You’re going to keep me here, tell me to be a good patient and eat my gelatin?”

“That’s a muggle hospital food,” Neville hurries to explain. “He likes television shows about doctors.”

Draco shoots him a dirty look and steadfastly ignores the shock on his mother’s face at this little revelation. She _really_ has no idea who he is anymore. “Like you don’t,” he says. Then to Justin, “So?”

Justin sighs. _“No,_ of course not. I’d hear about it for the next twenty years if I tried to stop you, and just the thought of it makes me tired. I’ll let you go, but I’m going _with_ you in case you fall over or something.”

“That seems excessive,” Draco says. “Aren’t you expected to be here? At your job?”

“This would have been my day off, you tosser,” Justin says, surprisingly snippy for him. “I’m only here for you anyway. So.”

Draco trips a bit on this information. He can see that Neville’s started smiling softly at him, watching him realize that Justin is here because he cares, not because he happened to be working. 

“Oh,” Draco says. He swallows and takes a deep breath. “That’s. Thank you.” 

“Right, well,” Justin smiles pleasantly at him, and then speaks mostly to Neville and Narcissa. “I’m going to excuse myself before he dies of how awkward it is to be liked. _Slytherins.”_ He winks at Neville. “Am I right? Be right back with a hydrating potion and something to help with that stimulant crash.” 

“I’m not crashing,” Draco says absently, even as he blinks rapidly. “It’s fine.” 

“Right,” Justin says, shooting Neville a meaningful look as he backs out of the room. 

Draco looks up at the ceiling and draws a shaky breath. 

“Alright?” Neville asks quietly. 

“Mmhm,” Draco manages, then clears his throat against the tight feeling there. “Just. I’m definitely crashing, and it can be a little-- ah, a little fragile.”

“Yeah,” Neville murmurs, reaching out to grasp his hand. “S’ok.” 

“Mummy?” Draco says in a slightly choked voice. 

“What is it, love?” Narcissa asks, coming forward hesitantly. 

“You, um—” Draco sniffles. “You’ve met Neville.” 

“Well,” Narcissa hedges. 

“You’ll like him,” Draco continues. “He has fantastic roses, and he talks to them, and he’s lovely.” 

Neville grins at him.

Narcissa’s eyes keep darting between the two of them. “That’s...nice, Draco,” she says, uncertainly. 

“Can someone please put me back under or something and stop me from talking?” Draco grits. “And _crying?”_

“It’s just the drugs, love,” Neville reassures him. “Don’t worry.” 

By the time Justin gets back with a jug of water and a handful of small potion vials, Draco has covered his face with the pillow, insisting that no one can look at him. 

“Slytherins,” Justin repeats, with the air of a man who has been here before. 

 

***

 

Pansy brings over clothes from Draco’s flat, along with a report on the well-being of the kittens. 

“God,” Draco says as he ties the laces on his dragonhide boots. “Glad no one mentioned them to me earlier. I would have dissolved into a literal puddle of tears.”

“Probably,” Neville agrees. 

It’s just the two of them and Pansy now. Potter has yet to return, Draco sent his mother home, and Justin’s off to steal medical supplies just in case they’re needed during this “farcical adventure.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be a farce,” Draco says, sounding like he’s convincing himself even to his own ears. “Is it?”

“It might be,” Pansy says. “But who cares? It might work, and you’ll maybe gain some standing in this blasted community. I think it’s worth a go.”

Draco looks to Neville, who shrugs. “I’m doing this because Harry insists it’ll accomplish something. He’s an odd bloke, Harry, but he’s often right about these things, at least lately.”

“He does have some experience with the whole—” Pansy waves her hand. “Media thing.” 

“We both got plenty, just after the war,” Neville sighs. “I never got used to it. Harry did.” 

Draco considers this, staring down at his boots. Anxiety swirls like ice through his veins, and his stomach clenches. He’s starving, actually, having not actually eaten real food in days while he was kept under. Once the farce is over, he’s going to beg Neville to take him for fish and chips. 

Fish and chips. That’s a calming thought. Draco clings to it. Fish and chips with Neville. Perfect. He looks back to Neville’s face, so full of concern and reflecting a little of Draco’s nerves back at him. “Do I look okay?”

Neville grins. “You always look amazing.”

“Disgusting,” Pansy sing-songs, and naturally Potter shows up again at that moment. 

“What’s disgusting?” 

Draco has to bite back the reflexive retort so hard he _squeaks._

“Ah, go ahead, Malfoy,” Potter jokes, leaning in the doorway. “Say it.”

“It’s not as fun when you give me permission,” Draco snipped. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You _like_ him, like him?” Potter asks Neville. “You’re sure?”

“Mm,” Neville confirms with a nod. “I do.”

“Stranger things,” Potter murmurs to himself. Then, “You know Nev, the Ministry flacks always prefer you to show up clean shaven.” 

Neville snorts, heaving himself up and then reaching down to help Draco and Pansy to their feet, one hand extended to each. “No,” he says.

Potter grins, and Draco realizes this is some sort of inside joke. “Sure? You still have time. If you’re fresh faced, they’ll think of you as that sweet boy who killed that snake. Could help things along. The press loves it when you’re all...fresh faced.”

“The press,” Neville says, “can _eat my pants._ And _choke on them.”_

With that, he shoves Potter out of the doorway and into the hall. 

“Let’s go.”

 

***

 

 _From_ The Daily Prophet, _“War Heroes Speak In Defense of Former Dark Lord Follower” by Aloysius Stafford:_

Representatives for Gooseberry’s Gallipot declined to comment on a schedule for reopening, but assured The Daily Prophet that the shop, which in 1963 celebrated its tricentennial anniversary, will indeed reopen in short order. 

Shortly after news spread throughout Hogsmeade that the venerated apothecary had been partially restored by a team of cursebreakers on Thursday morning, this reporter met with Auror Harry Potter, and his well-known friends and fellow Order of Merlin recipients Auror Ronald Weasley, Hermione Weasley, and Neville Longbottom, as well as with injured Gallipot employee and former follower of Voldemort, Draco Malfoy. 

[Photo]

[Caption: Draco Malfoy in his seventh year at Hogwarts]

 

***

 

“This is tripe,” Hermione Granger-Weasley scoffs from the passenger seat of the car, tossing the evening edition of the Prophet to the floor at her feet. “They barely mention _anything_ we said to them or in the press conference, and they only mention NMS in the last paragraph. Once. As if it was all just a great coincidence and not outright terrorism.”

“It’s the Prophet,” Draco drawls from his position in the back seat, stretched across the bench with his legs curled up and his head in Neville’s lap. 

“You really should be wearing a seatbelt, Malfoy,” Hermione snips, turning to face him. In the driver’s seat, Dean Thomas snorts. 

“I’m quite fine the way I am, thank you,” Draco replies without opening his eyes. He had been hoping to nap on their way to Terrace House. That was the advantage to muggle travel. One could simply close one’s eyes and catch a bit of shut-eye while en route. 

Neville cards his fingers through Draco’s hair and says something about all the charms rendering muggle safety features somewhat redundant. 

“Trust me,” Hermione grumbles. “I heard all about the upgrades to this car when Harry was buying it. Obsessed with it.”

“It’s a nice car,” Dean says pleasantly. 

“Why are you even here, Granger?” Malfoy groans before she can start on what a waste of money Potter’s muggle monstrosity had been. He’d heard it already, when Potter himself suggested they use it to sneak Draco and Neville out to Wiltshire. “Nothing better to do?”

“As a matter of fact,” Hermione says primly, “I have business with Neville’s head house elf, and would have already been to Terrace House and back this morning had we not needed to trot out the dog and pony show for your benefit.”

“No one said you had to come to the interview,” Draco snipes.

Neville sighs. “Must we do this now?”

“Harry thought that my presence, and that of my husband, might help,” Hermione says, a haughty edge suggesting that perhaps Draco ought to muster up some gratitude. “Unfortunately, it seems the Prophet refuses to be swayed into nonpartisan reporting even with four so-called war heroes insisting on it.”

Draco squints at the back of her head. She’s facing forward and hasn’t looked back at him again. Her hair twitches in a way that Draco thinks conveys annoyance. He’s never seen hair with opinions. 

He’s so tired, and clearly still affected by the potions he’s been on for days.

“One war criminal cancels out up to five war heroes in any given situation as it relates to optics,” Draco informs her. “Or aren’t you aware of that phenomenon? Too used to hanging around a particular class of people, I suppose.”

Of course, she doesn't take it as intended. “I suppose you mean—”

“I don’t mean anything,” Draco interrupts her, because what he means is that she’s rarely had to tolerate people like him, and he is in no mood to admit to her that he’s glad for that. He can’t quite stomach adding _apologizing to Hermione Granger for my existence_ to the pile of the day’s humiliations, so he doesn't, closing his eyes again and focusing on the distracting, soothing pull of Neville’s fingers over his scalp. “Ignore me, I’m quite tired.” 

Neville’s hand slips down to give Draco’s shoulder a little squeeze. 

 

***

 

 _From_ The Quibbler _, “Draco Malfoy attacked; Friends speak out.” by Zero Florentino._

“Violence is never the answer,” Potter said, echoing his own words, spoken at the commemoration of the Godric’s Hollow Memorial Quidditch Field last year. “What’s more, Draco Malfoy has done nothing to invite conflict with anyone. Since serving his probation he has done nothing to invite scrutiny. I, like any other decent wizard would be, am disgusted by what has taken place here at the hands of the terroristic New Magic Society.”

Hermione Granger-Weasley, OMFC, Potter compatriot and current employee of the Ministry of Magic, added: “Both my husband and I share Harry’s feelings on this matter.”

Seated to Potter’s left, Auror Ronald Weasley, OMFC, was taciturn but nodded agreement with his close friend and his spouse during a last-minute press conference held at the Ministry of Magic yesterday evening. 

Neville Longbottom, OMFC and current assistant professor of Herbology at Hogwarts, was also present, as was Draco Malfoy, Gooseberry’s Gallipot employee. Longbottom spoke briefly in agreement with Potter’s notions of post-war peace and forgiveness, then seemed to imply an intimate relationship with Mister Malfoy. 

“No comment,” he responded when asked to share specifics. 

“We are both private people,” Malfoy added, “myself in particular, and even more-so considering recent events.”

 

***

 

 “Good old Quibbler,” Neville sighs, setting down the magazine. “At least they blast NMS right up front. Too bad it’s the only explicitly neutral take on us so far. We could do with something _positive_ , but I’ll take neutral.”

From his place before the fire in Neville’s bedroom at Terrace House, Draco hums and keeps on playing with the kittens. “Let’s stop reading our press.”

“I can agree to that,” Neville says easily. “You should get back in bed.”

“I was in bed for half a week, and slept for eighteen hours when we got home,” Draco protests, unwilling to admit he does feel tired again, despite the early hour. “I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine,” Neville murmurs, crouching down and scritching Thistle behind one ear. “You still need _—deserve,_ even—some rest.”

“And you?”

“I am obviously getting into bed with you, as soon as I have a quick chat with Mizzy.”

Draco allows Neville to pull him up off the floor by both hands. “You don’t have to,” he says. “I know you must be bored of watching me sleep.”

Neville kisses him lightly on the nose. “Never. Come on, I’ll tuck you in and then pop downstairs. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Draco is settled in the bed with the cats for company, and he swears he won’t drift off before Neville gets back, but that’s exactly what he does. He comes to when the mattress sinks beside him. 

“Went okay?” Draco mumbles, lifting up the covers so Neville can get in properly. 

“Mizzy was halfway to forming a gang to go fight for your honor when we arrived the other night,” Neville replies. “Tonight she and Itzy were planning a feast to put the Hogwarts dining hall to shame in order to, and I quote, _fatten Master Draco up_. I calmed them down again.”

“I love them,” Draco sighs. “I love you.”

Neville slides close, inviting Draco to curl into his side, which he happily does. “I love you too,” Neville says softly. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“Mm.” Draco presses his face to Neville’s bare chest. “I don’t feel alright in some ways.”

“Scared?”

“...yes.” It hurts to admit. Draco was so tired of being afraid for so long, and he’d been making so much progress.

 _Not,_ says Anjali’s voice, _that the progress has been invalidated by this._

“Me too,” Neville murmurs. “We’ll make it right. You’ll be safe.”

“But—” Draco hesitates. “But will I ever be…” He sighs, not wanting to finish the thought. _Normal. Accepted. Good. Liked. Tolerated._

“Yes,” Neville says, as if he really does know for certain. “You will be. I’ll help.”

Draco closes his eyes and swallows down the urge to cry. “I know.”

“Sleep, sweetheart.”

“That’s my line.”

Neville chuckles, jostling Draco’s cheek a bit where it lays on his chest. “That it is. So you’ve claimed _sweetheart_ and _darling._ What do I get to call you?”

“Draco.”

“Honey?”

Draco snorts. “No.”

“Baby.”

“Maybe in bed, but that’s it.”

“Gorgeous.”

“My ego’s big enough, don’t you think?”

Neville hums, the sound a deep vibrato right next to Draco’s ear. He’s quiet for a while, and Draco thinks he must have dropped the joke. But then he presses his lips to the top of Draco’s head and says, “Love.”

Draco’s heart swells in his chest and he peeks up at Neville’s face, which looks down at him full of sweet adoration and affection. “Okay,” Draco says. “Yes, please.”

Nevilled cups his cheek and tips their mouths together in a lingering kiss. “That’s settled, then. Go to sleep, love.”

It’s easy to do just that. 

 

***

 

By Sunday, Draco is going stir-crazy. 

Neville won’t allow him to do a thing for himself, and he completely refuses to _touch_ Draco in any sort of interesting way. 

“I didn’t _refuse,”_ Neville insists over lunch. “I just don’t want to hurt you. Your face is still healing, and—”

“Oh, so it’s my face is it?” Draco spears a potato wedge with his fork. “I knew it. I knew you found the swelling repulsive.”

“There is no more swelling,” Neville reminds him calmly. “And I never found it repulsive. I know it’s tender is all. The Healers also said you might be prone to headaches for a while, and I don’t want to cause one.”

Draco chews and glares. He flicks his eyes to the kitchen doorway where Itzy thinks they don’t know she’s hovering. “These garlic potatoes are a revelation, Itzy,” he says, then goes back to glaring at Neville while she scurries away with a squeak. 

“Listen—”

Draco sets down his fork and leans forward, dropping his voice as low as he can to try and spare the elves. “You listen,” he says, “I have had an ordeal, and yes, I needed to rest. I rested for days. For two entire days. I took my potions and applied my dittany. And now I am asking my boyfriend to take me upstairs and fuck me until I forget any of it ever happened. And _you_ , my boyfriend, are _refusing to do it.”_

Neville has buried his face in his hands. He chuckles behind them. “I said, I didn’t refuse.”

“You keep pulling away from me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you!”

“I’m _asking_ you to! I don’t care if it hurts my head a little, I don’t care if my eye still smarts. I _want_ you.”

Neville drops his hands. “Well when you say it like that.”

“Excellent,” Draco says briskly, taking his napkin out of his lap and throwing it on the table. “Let’s go.”

“What, right _now?”_

“Are we the sort of couple who must wait for nightfall?” Draco demands. “Next you’ll insist on missionary.”

He leans across the table and takes Neville gently by the collar, pulling him into a dirty, biting kiss. Neville rises into it instantly, his hands planted on the table as he half-stands out of his chair. He makes a sweet little sound in the back of his throat when Draco sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and tugs. 

“Let’s go,” Draco repeats. 

 

***

 

He thought it would be easy to keep the momentum and heat going from the kitchen, considering the multiple pauses to lean on things and make out between there and Neville’s bed. But it does slow, the initial burn dying down to embers for a bit. Neville is of course the one slowing things down, but this time it’s in a way that Draco can allow. 

Neville doesn't pull away, he simply takes his time. Draco is fairly sure they’ve never undressed this slowly or carefully before. He knows he’s never been laid out this gently before, held this sweetly or kissed this softly. 

He finds he likes it, quite a lot. 

The thing about Neville perhaps finding the bruising repulsive had been a bit of improvised manipulation, but it had just been a dressed-up version of the fears creeping up the back of Draco’s neck with each easing away, each kiss cut short. Now, Neville is careful, but he isn’t unsure or resistent. There is still reverence in his hands. 

Draco had thought, that morning, when Neville cut short what had been a promising make out session between the sheets: _there’s saying you’re fine with your boyfriend being a rehabilitated Death Eater when it’s all distant and theoretical. There’s fucking someone who is a bit questionable. And then there’s me, the one the papers just called a ‘former follower of the Dark Lord’ in black and fucking white._

It was a viciously nasty, insidious thought, and Draco knew it was completely unfounded, but there it had been, and it had managed to sink its teeth into him for nearly a full day. 

The press of Neville’s body against his obliterates it, at last. Draco remembers who, in fact, Neville Longbottom is, and the many hundreds of lovely, perfect things he’s said to Draco. He feels stupid for having forgotten, and then forgives himself immediately, because it’s been a bit of a week. 

“I needed this,” he whispers as Neville allows him to switch their positions, climbing over so his knees rest on either side of Neville’s lap. “Is that alright?”

“Of course it is,” Neville says, and he’s hard, so evidently it really is. “I...want you to know that I’d want to touch you if your entire face turned into a bubotuber. I could never be...put off of you. The bruises aren’t anything.”

Draco’s heart thumps hard against his ribs and he leans down for another of those languid, sweet kisses. He really makes it count, hoping to make amends and soothe his own guilt at having said such a thing. “I know,” he says when they part for a moment. “I know that, I’m sorry. Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Neville says. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“Merlin,” Draco says, almost despairingly. “You are perfect and wonderful. Will you please...I want you in me _yesterday.”_

Neville grinds up against him and cants his hips, his warm hands holding and gently spreading Draco’s thighs further apart. “Go on then,” he says. 

Draco, despite the ache it causes in his healing cheeks, grins back, and summons the lube. 

 

***

 

Draco returns to work on Monday, where the Gallipot stands once more, if in some disarray. He’s there for twenty minutes before he decides that the best thing he can do is follow Golda’s lead by pretending nothing has happened at all. 

Just after his lunch break, which he spends staring at the flowers which arrived from Hogwarts an hour into the day, with a murderously sweet note in Neville’s hand, Draco’s peace is disturbed by the arrival of Hermione Granger-Weasley. 

“Good afternoon, Mister Malfoy,” she says, and Draco understands immediately that she is there in a professional capacity. 

He can admit that she looks quite formidable and practically stylish in her obviously carefully chosen robes, her hair tamed into a sensible chignon. A ministry emblem is pinned to her lapel, but it doesn't belong to a department Draco recognizes. 

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” Draco says smoothly. “How can I assist you this afternoon?”

“I hoped I could speak with your employer regarding the recent incident involving this building,” she says. “Then, if you’ve time, it would help if I could speak with you about the separate incident which took place last Tuesday.”

Draco nods and goes to retrieve Golda. He makes a point not to listen to whatever they say to each other, seated just in the back while Draco minds the counter. 

Pansy arrives while Draco is drumming his fingers on a pile of order forms. 

“I’m not here to check up on you,” she says before he can even open his mouth. “So don’t even think about getting stroppy.”

“I—” Draco straightens from his slump over the counter. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he finishes. “What are you doing here, then?”

“I’m meant to be meeting with you and Granger. Weasley. Granger-Weasley.”

Draco blinks, taken by surprise. “Really?”

“Mm,” Pansy cranes her neck toward the open door leading to the back of the shop. “She’s in with Golda, then?”

“Yes, but—”

“All will be explained,” Pansy interrupts. “How was your weekend? Longbottom saw to you? What am I saying, I’m _sure_ he did.”

Draco rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to snipe back at her, but it’s then that Granger-Weasley reappears with Golda, who grumbles at Draco not to dilly dally, shoving him toward the back and letting Pansy in through the little gate installed in the counter. 

“What in the hell are you two doing here?” Draco manages to get out between Pansy and Hermione’s stilted greetings. 

“We’re fixing things,” Hermione says, as if it’s obvious and he’s a simpleton for not catching on.

“Restructuring the world a bit,” Pansy adds, which clarifies nothing. “One idiot at a time, starting with you.”

They’re stood side-by-side now, facing him and blocking the door. Draco swallows. He has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but he’s fairly certain he’s in some sort of trouble. 

 

***

 

“They want to _increase the visibility_ of former Death Eaters and the _non-implicated families of current and former_ Death Eaters,” Draco tells Neville that night, aghast and throwing up violent air quotes. They’re tucked up in Neville’s bed in his Hosgsmeade flat. 

“You say that like it’s the worst thing you can imagine,” Neville says. “I don’t think it is, though.”

“You’re a Gryffindor with Hufflepuff leanings,” Draco huffs dismissively. “You _wouldn’t.”_

“Pansy thinks it’s a good idea.” Neville doesn't seem bothered by the jibe. “So. Your argument is a bit weak there, love.”

Draco sighs. “Damn.”

“Just go to the Ministry thing they’ve cooked up,” Neville murmurs, shifting closer across the mattress and tugging Draco closer. “I’ll go, too. It’s on a Thursday evening and I’m only on dinner duty at the school Monday to Wednesday. It’ll be fine, but if it isn’t for some reason, I’ll take you away from all those awful people and we’ll go back to yours and shag on the good sofa.”

Draco allows himself to be cuddled and smiles into Neville’s hair, still shower-damp and smelling deliciously fresh. “Well, if you promise.”

“I promise.”

Draco wrinkles his nose, recalling bits and pieces of the conversation that still don’t make sense to him. “Do _you_ know what a _town hall meeting_ is?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Neville shrugs. “We shouldn’t have let them talk to each other after the press conference.”

“Too right.”

They fall into silence, but Draco’s mind ticks over and over his worries, back and forth from thing to thing, until he finds them all swirling away-- strangely enough, to the tempo of the small circles Neville has been surreptitiously drawing on Draco’s back with the tip of his finger. 

 Draco lets the thoughts go, for now, and focuses on the soft, soothing touch. “I love you,” he says as it begins to lose its pattern, slowing with Neville’s breaths. 

“Mm. Love you too.”

Neville falls asleep around then, but Draco lies awake, listening to the drip of automatic watering systems in the next room over, and wondering what the hell’s going to happen next. 

 

***

 

“I’ve got some unsolicited advice for you,” Golda says without preamble the next week. 

It’s Friday and the shop is closed for the night. Draco looks up from his tidying of the desk in the little back room and takes in Golda’s posture, the arrangement of the lines on her face. She’s _almost_ smiling, so he’s probably not in trouble. “Oh?”

“Mind if I sit?”

“You own the chair,” Draco replies with a smirk, which she returns. He’s definitely not in trouble, then. 

Golda takes a seat with a groan, the popping of her knees loud enough to make Draco wince. 

At length, Golda studies the desk Draco had just been tidying, the neatened shelves and organized cleaning supplies in the corner, and then Draco himself. Then, she deigns to speak. “You’re wanting to go into business for yourself, I imagine.”

Draco is unsurprised that she knows this; he’s asked her plenty of questions about how the Gallipot grew, how it’s survived all this time. Plus, he thinks Golda can read thoughts. 

“Right…” he says, because while he’s not surprised, he doesn't have a clue as to where this conversation might go. “Well, it’s a long-term plan.”

Golda grunts. “I would think so, you’re more or less broke for now, are you not?”

“I have _some_ savings,” Draco hedges. 

“Hoping to open up shop somewhere, are you?”

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “We both know I’m unlikely to find a willing landlord here or in Diagon. Maybe Knockturn, but. Well.”

Golda narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “You could try the smaller, newer enclaves, of course. Half in muggle London as they are. Could work.” 

“I’ve considered it,” Draco agrees, resisting the urge to ask her what she’s getting at. 

“Have you considered that a shop might not be your best route?” 

Draco blinks and looks around as if he can encompass the whole of the Gallipot. “But—”

“This place is a special case,” Golda says. “You know that. Old as the hills and stubborn. And the only business in town, at least in this corner of Scotland. The Gallipot can take a few punches. I can have my shop hexed into disappearing for half a week and still survive. Easily.”

“I know.”

“An upstart wouldn’t. Survive, that is.”

“I…” Draco winces and clears his throat. “I know that, too.” 

Golda surprises him by reaching out and shaking him by the shoulder. “Cheer up, lad. It’s not all so bad. I told you I have unsolicited advice for you.”

“Right, yes. Please, I’m...soliciting it, now.”

Golda snorts. “You are an odd thing, you know? But you’re smart as hell, and hungry. Not so much for success though, eh?”

“Success would be _nice,”_ Draco admits. “But no, it’s not really about that.”

“You need a place. A career and not a job. You were raised to be a little Lord, weren’t you? Bookkeeping for me was never going to last forever. You would wither up, doing that.” Golda smacks Draco on the knee. “Can’t have that. It’s time you got real about your prospects. ‘Specially if you’re planning to marry that Longbottom boy.”

_“Well—”_

“I don’t want to know anything about it,” Golda insists, waving away the personal with one hand. “Here’s the advice: don’t sink your coin into a shop that will be a vulnerable liability. Find a small lab space to rent, and owl the man I’m about to tell you about. He will let you correspond for an advanced certificate in Potions. Should be enough to get you going. You’ll meet the licensing requirements for small batch brewing within the year. Work for me part-time until you don’t need to. When you get your first decent contract, I’ll offer you a good deal on your supplies. Once you don’t need a steady place here, if you’ll agree to consult on business matters and as a Potions expert, I’ll be glad to offer you shares, at a discount, in the Gallipot, with an option to purchase more. Don’t gape, boy, you look like a guppy.”

Draco splutters, waving one hand. “What you’re saying is—”

“I want this business to outlive me by a significant margin. You want your independence. What I’m saying is that I will offer limited assistance to you in achieving your goal if you will offer me significant assistance in achieving mine.”

“That is _not—”_

“Like I said,” Golda grumbles as she stands, knees popping twice as loud this direction. “Just some unsolicited advice.”

 _Advice my arse,_ Draco thinks wildly. _That was a road map._

“Thank you, Golda,” he manages to say. “I’ll...think on all of this.”

She slaps his shoulder and then, shockingly, squeezes it. _Affectionately._ “Good.”

 

***

 

“Can I ask you something?”

Draco looks up from the floor, where he has lain contentedly at Neville’s feet, playing with Thistle and Juliet, since they arrived home from the event at the Ministry. It had gone...well enough, actually, but Draco had been half frozen from stress and tension by the time they’d walked through the door to his flat. Neville had prescribed kitten time and a stiff drink, and had of course been right. Draco feels miles away from all of that, now. 

“Ask away,” he says, twitching a feather toy between the two cats and watching them bat at it. 

“Do you…” Neville hesitates and averts his eyes.

Draco sits up, curious, and walks his fingers over Neville’s knee, heading slowly toward his thigh. “Is this a sex thing?”

Neville laughs and blushes, shaking his head. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“Well?” 

“I just wonder if you would be interested in, you know, one day—it could be whenever! I’m not trying to push or anything! I promise. Okay? Just um, want to make that clear—”

Draco rises to his knees and runs soothing hands over Neville’s arms. “I don’t know what you’re asking me, sweetheart, but I could never think of you as pushing. So just get to the point already.”

“I’d like it if we lived together,” Neville says in a rush. “Would you? Also like that?”

Draco beams up at him. “This is almost as good as _would you want to date me. Er, officially.”_

Neville groans and hangs his head. “Please don’t tease me now.”

Draco laughs and crawls up onto the sofa and into Neville’s lap. He has to kiss him, first. Then, he says, “I would also like that.”

“Really?”

Draco kisses him again, soft and sweet and practically shaking with the joy rising up in him. “Of course really. When? Tomorrow? Let’s live together starting tomorrow.”

Neville laughs and holds him tightly. “Oh, thank god. My flat without you, it’s been miserable since—”

“Since we went to Terrace House,” Draco finishes. _“I know._ Me, too.”

“I wasn’t sure if it was everything that happened after, you know,” Neville sighs. “Like maybe you getting hurt just made me jumpy and I wanted to keep you close. But it wasn’t that. Or not just that.”

“Now be honest,” Draco says, mock-sternly. “Is this because you miss the cats?”

“Yes.” Neville nods decisively. “Without a hint of a joke, I really do miss the cats. So yes, it’s partly that.” 

“Good.” Draco wiggles in Neville’s lap. “I love this, _yes,_ how do we do this thing? Do I move into your flat? Do you move in here? Do we live at Terrace House? How does that work with both of us needing to be Hogsmeade every day?” 

Neville shrugs and laughs again, his eyes sparkling warmly up at Draco from beneath his floppy bangs. Draco reaches up and pushes them back and away, and they both get a little caught up staring at each other dopily for a bit. 

Eventually, Neville says, “I hadn’t thought that far yet. Terrace House needs to be connected for floo travel service to Scotland, which will be an undertaking and a half, but once that’s done, we could potentially live there.”

“In the meantime,” Draco thinks out loud, “I hate to say it, but your flat isn’t exactly cat friendly with all the plants.”

“Yeah,” Neville says with a thoughtful hum. “I have some private greenhouse space for independent research at the school, and the ones at the house are nearly fully repaired now. It wouldn’t be a problem to move them, maybe just bring a window box or two here?”

“You could have more than window boxes,” Draco says. “As long as they’re not poisonous to the kittens, bring whatever plant life you want. I love your plants.”

“Merlin,” Neville whispers. “You’re fantastic, you know?”

“I _really_ adore you,” is all Draco can think to say. 

“Same,” Neville says, and pulls him in for a kiss. 

“So?” Draco demands when they part long moments later. “When? When, when, when?”

Neville laughs and keeps on kissing him. “Tomorrow, love. I’ll start packing tomorrow. Now take me to bed, would you?”

“With pleasure,” Draco gasps, practically leaping over the cats to lead the way into his--their--bedroom. “Come on, I’m going to make you come your brains out.”

Neville’s laughter fills the flat, even after the bedroom door slams behind them. 

 

***

 

 _From_ Witch Weekly _(November Issue) “The Snake Slayer and the Slytherin” by Antoinette Chaudry._

You remember the news stories last summer. You’ve seen the surreptitiously-snapped photos circulating in various gossip rags. You may have spotted them walking hand-in-hand down Hogsmeade’s high street. Let’s be real: we _all_ have. This writer may or may not have made a special trip to the little Scottish hamlet at the foot of Hogwarts’ hills last Sunday in hopes of catching a glimpse (alas: my sources tell me Assistant Professor Neville Longbottom and his paramour, redeemed bad boy Draco Malfoy often spend weekends at Longbottom’s family seat, the location of which is unknown). 

I am not alone in my curiosity. Indeed, many of our dear beloved readers have owled with questions and concerns about this high profile duo in recent weeks, and who can blame you? Who can blame _us?_ The possibilities are endless when it comes to potential explanations for this unlikely, star-crossed love match. Adding fuel to the fire, neither Longbottom or Malfoy will budge from their policy of silence when it comes to the particulars. “No comment,” is all we, or anyone else, can get out of either of them _or_ their friends. Even as the two have joined forces with war hero Hermione Granger-Weasley’s Department of the Coexistence of Magical Beings to combat prejudice within the magical community, appearing at several events this autumn, details have been thin on the ground. 

[Photo]

[Caption: Draco Malfoy (left) attends a Ministry of Magic C.o.M.B. Town Hall Unity Session in Ottery St. Catchpole, on the arm of Neville Longbottom (right) and in the company of both Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger-Weasley (not pictured).] 

Well, dear readers, since we’ve got nothing to go on, we present to you the Top 5 Fan Theories sent to us last month. Read on for 5 takes, some of them sweet, some of them steamy, some of them a bit scary, on how these two famous wizards came to be an item!

 

***

 

Draco laughs for a week. Neville is not amused. 

“My bloody students read this trash!” He cries. “I think one of these might’ve been submitted by one of my fifth years, for Christ’s sake!” 

Draco perks up from where he’s been poring over plans for converting Uncle Albert’s old room at Terrace House into a serviceable potions lab, while occasionally reminding Neville that at least this was mostly positive press, for once. “Oh? Which one?”

Neville glowers. “The _steamy_ one.”

Draco tosses the plans aside. “I liked that one,” he purrs. “Let’s give it a go, shall we?”

 

***

 

**Epilogue**

 

By the next autumn, things have changed. Drastically. And for the good. You could knock Draco over with a feather. 

“If you’d told me a year and a half ago…”

Anjali grins at him from her chair. “You would have told me I was the one requiring assistance with my mental health.”

Draco flushes. “Well, I would’ve _thought_ it.”

Anjali just smiles at him. “So,” she says after a moment. “You’re still comfortable going from monthly to as-needed sessions?”

Draco actually pauses to think about it, even though he has thought about it extensively for months. One last check with himself won’t hurt, so he turns the question over and really makes _sure_ he’s sure. 

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “I think it’s a good thing.”

“It is a good thing,” Anjali agrees. “And you can ask for more sessions whenever you feel you need them. Or even if you just want to check in.”

“I know,” Draco says, picking at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. “Right.”

“We’re almost to the end of our time,” Anjali says. “Anything you want to talk about before I send you out into your day?”

Draco has had _this_ prepared for a while, so he shakes his head. “No, nothing to talk about,” he says. “But I need to thank you for what you’ve done for me.” 

“It’s not necessary. But you’re very welcome.”

“Pansy used to say I paid you to be my friend.”

Anjali laughs. “Well, it’s not _too_ inaccurate a summation of my purpose here, I suppose.” 

“I know we aren’t friends,” Draco says. “Not really. But you were a person who was willing to see me as something other than what I am. Was. What I am _and_ what I was, I suppose. That...it means more to me than you can know.” He pauses to take a breath. “And I don’t think I could have done any of this without your help. I feel like I... _met_ myself, and that only happened because you introduced me. That sounds stupid but, that’s it. So thank you, again.”

Anjali stands and holds out a hand. Draco takes it. She clasps her other hand over his and shakes it gently. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Draco.” 

 

***

 

“Master Draco!” Mizzy throws herself in his path before he can get more than three feet into the foyer at Terrace House. “I-- have urgent business with you.” 

Draco blinks down at her. She’s got both hands clenched tight in the edges of his cloak, as if she could physically steer him anywhere. He would let her, were this not an incredibly suspicious turn of events. There’s a loud bang from somewhere up the stairs. Draco glances toward the landing and sees light spilling out from under the double doors to Mrs. Longbottom’s suite. 

“What’s going on?” 

Mizzy audibly teeters, unsure of what to say. “Well,” she tries. “Nothing?” 

Another bang, and the doors open just wide enough for Neville’s face to appear between them. “Oh bollocks, you’re home early.” 

“Well I like that,” Draco tells Mizzy. “We’ve lived here all of two months and he’s already sick of me. I knew it.” 

“Your surprise isn’t being _finished,”_ Mizzy finally wails, her hands wringing the wool of Draco’s cloak. “Master Neville is saying to stall if you arrive early but—I—Mizzy is not an _actress—”_

Neville sighs and steps out of the suite. “Mizzy, don’t fret. It’s alright, send him up.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Am I permitted to remove and hang my cloak?”

“No,” Neville replies, grinning. “As a matter of fact, you are not.” 

He bounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He skids to a stop before Draco and gently prods Mizzy to step aside. “Mizzy, it’s fine, relax. It’s finished enough, I promise.”

Mizzy mumbles and wrings her hands. “If you are saying so.” 

“Close your eyes,” Neville tells Draco, already taking his hands. “I’ll lead you.” 

“I am suddenly breathless with excitement,” Draco says as he closes his eyes, meaning it. “What have you been doing? It’s your last day of vacation.” 

“Yeah, and I’ve been confining my efforts to your shifts at the Gallipot, so I’m a little down to the wire, here. We had a lot to get done today.”

“We?” 

“You’ll see,” Neville says. “Steps. Take them slowly. One. Two. Three…”

On the landing, Draco is surprised by a kiss he couldn’t see coming. He smiles into it. “Is this a sex thing?”

Neville laughs against his cheek. “No, you absolute slag.” 

“Damn.”

“Alright, I’m opening the doors but keep your eyes closed.”

Draco hears the doors open, and he is led into what he knows is Neville’s grandmother’s former bedroom. He regrets the sex comment, and opens his mouth to say so, but he’s interrupted. 

“Open your eyes.” 

Draco does, and the action is met with a softly-spoken chorus of, “Surprise!” 

“Oh!”

The room, which Draco has seen exactly once, is no longer a bedroom. There are no traces of the dominion of an elderly matriarch here. The room has been transformed into what appears to be a gorgeous office space. Bookshelves line the walls; a modern but grand desk sits at the center. The visitors’ chairs, Draco is pretty sure, are the repurposed, transfigured remains of the big squishy couch from his flat— they hadn’t been able to find a sensible place for it when they moved in, and it’s been in storage ever since. 

The room isn’t _full_ of people, but there are several present: Pansy, Justin, Luna Lovegood, _Golda_ of all people, and, even more shockingly, Draco’s _mother._

Draco bites down on his first reaction, which is: _What the fuck and why the fuck and how the fuck is my mother here?_

“Wow,” he says instead. “What—”

“This,” Neville says, “is your office.” 

“My—”

“For meeting clients!” Luna provides. “I’m your first one, though we could still meet at the pub like we have been, if you like.” 

Draco blinks, taking it in. “Clients.”

“I’ve had inquiries,” Golda informs him. “As has Master Llewellyn, since you completed your studies. It’s time to hang out the shingle, boy.”

“Oh,” Draco says intelligently. 

“The office and landing are warded,” Neville says gently, near his ear. His hands are warm through the fabric of Draco’s cloak where they rest on his shoulders. “You can bring clients here, whenever you need, safely. Your mum was good enough to lend some of her expertise in protective wards, as well as some added power by involving an element of familial protection.” 

“I…” Draco looks around. “Am speechless.” 

“Good speechless?” Pansy prompts. 

Draco thinks yes, but he can’t speak. He feels a bit like the floor’s fallen out from under his feet, but he’s so full of bubbles he can’t seem to fall with it. A smile works its way over his face, beyond his control. “This is…”

He turns to Neville, trying to say with his eyes what he can’t seem to manage with his mouth. Neville smiles down at him, understanding. 

“Mister Malfoy,” he says. “May I take your cloak?” 

Draco laughs, though he’s confused. “Well, of course you may.” 

Neville does, then makes a show of hanging it on the cloak rack just inside the double doors. 

Pansy steps forward. “Welcome to er...Malfoy’s Magical...Mixtures. Please, won’t you have a seat?” 

Draco shakes his head, grinning as he’s lead to one of the plush visitor chairs. “I’m not calling my business that.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Golda grunts as Draco is pushed down into the seat. 

“This is what it will look like from right here, as a client,” Pansy says, then hauls him up. “But that’s enough of that, sit in the _boss man chair.”_

Draco lets himself be lead and pushed and prodded, and then he’s at his desk. _His_ desk. In _his_ office. 

“Wow,” he murmurs, running his fingers over the smooth wood surface. 

“That’s from our place,” Justin offers. “From a study I think my auntie redecorated in the ‘60s. Nev here thought you’d like it.”

Draco looks up and meets Nevilles eyes across the room. He looks so impossibly fond, and a bit sheepish, his hand hooked in the usual familiar, shy way he has, round the back of his own neck. Draco smirks and shakes his head. _Oh, Longbottom, you are so in for it when all these bloody people get out of here._

A throat clears, and his mother steps in close, effectively dousing his dirty thoughts with ice water. “I need to be off,” she says softly. 

“Right,” Draco replies, a well-worn weariness creeping its way up his neck. Of course she won’t stay. 

But his mother surprises him, bending down to press a kiss to his temple before she leans close to his ear. “You have done _very_ well,” she whispers, her voice a little choked. “I am _desperately,_ _terribly_ proud of you.” 

“Mummy—”

Narcissa kisses him again and squeezes his shoulder tightly before she straightens. “Enjoy your office, dear,” she says, composure pasted back in place. 

She sweeps out, pausing only to nod approvingly in Neville’s general direction, which is almost as surprising as the words she just said to Draco. 

There’s more throat clearing while Draco blinks rapidly in an effort to hold back the floods of emotion that have been rising since he entered this room, and people start making their excuses. He hurries to get up and thank them all, one by one. 

Pansy hugs him tight and tells him she loves him, and Justin smacks him on the back and says, “What she said.” 

Golda is gruff, but she gives him one of her awkward shoulder shakes, which have become more and more a feature of their interactions over the past year. “Use it well,” she mutters. “I expect you to finish your commitment to Gallipot, like we discussed.”

“Of course,” Draco says quickly. “Absolutely. Thank you for coming, Golda.”

“Fresh ledgers and a letter from Llewellyn in the top right drawer of the desk,” she mutters, and goes. 

Luna hugs him too, and Draco hugs her back, because he’s getting used to Luna’s way, and he likes her quite a lot. Her embraces don’t startle him anymore. “See you next week to test the new prototype,” she says. “I can’t wait.” 

She makes a saucy comment to Neville about getting Draco out of the room before they celebrate, lest they do something wonky to the fresh wards with accidental sex magic.

And then they’re alone and standing on opposite sides of the room. Neville looks poised to say something, but Draco shakes his head and crosses the space between them in a couple of long strides. 

“Take me to bed right now,” he gasps, then throws himself into Neville’s arms. “I love you, thank you, I love you _so much,_ and I am going to _take you apart.”_

Neville laughs and kisses him, holding him tight around his waist and lifting him right off his feet. “Don’t want to sit at the desk? Take it in?”

“Later,” Draco insists. “I can do that every day. I want to. But not now.”

Neville softens and kisses him again, squeezes him tight again. “Okay,” he says, and then he picks Draco up and does as he’s been asked. 

 

***

 

In the morning, Draco wakes before Neville and creeps down the stairs to the kitchen. He feels like he’s going for a drug deal in a muggle film when he finds the house elf in the dark and whispers, “Do you have it?”

“Exactly where Master Draco hid it,” Todd hisses back, and produces a bunch of flowers.

“Perfect, Todd,” Draco says. “Thank you ever so much. Take the day off, alright?”

He’s too busy dashing back up the stairs and to the end of the hallway, making for the owlery on quiet feet, to hear Todd’s reply. He nearly trips over a cat—there are four now, and he can’t tell in the dark which one that was. He makes soothing noises at it while it darts away, then rushes up the owlery staircase. 

His owl, Blue, gives the bouquet in his hands a disdainful sniff and ignores him while he wraps it for travel. 

“I know they aren’t up to the usual standard,” he tells the owl. “But I’m not a Master Herbologist, or even a semi-decent gardener. Look, I’m hoping he sees it with love goggles on or what have you. It’s his first day as a full professor and he _always_ does this sort of thing for me. It’s my bloody turn. Can you get them to Hogwarts by his lunch hour?”

If owls could roll their eyes, Blue would be doing just that in his direction. He sets the flowers on her perch and straps them on, then feeds her a treat and gives her a kiss. 

“You’re the best, pretty lady,” he whispers, and she flies off. 

Draco creeps back to bed. Neville stirs and pulls him under the covers. “Is it morning? Time’s’it?”

“Too early, Professor,” Draco mutters. “Go back to sleep.”

“Gotta...floo out by seven. Is it morning?”

Draco turns in Neville’s arms and kisses him once on the tip of his nose. “I’ve set an alarm. Sleep. Professor Longbottom.”

“When’s _that_ going to get old?”

“Literally never. Also, go back to sleep.”

Neville’s hand sweeps a lazy, exploratory path down Draco’s back and finds its way to his backside with a proprietary squeeze. “Don’t want to sleep.”

Draco’s smile is hidden in the dark and under the blankets, but he presses it to Neville’s chest and knows he can feel it. “Alright then,” he whispers. “So don’t.”

Neville flips him onto his back and digs the fingers of his other hand, just briefly, into Draco’s ribs, startling him into a screech of laughter that Draco is sure must echo all the way to the kitchens. Neville doesn't torture him further, just covers Draco with his body and brings their lips together. 

And it _is_ morning, in this house where no one ever needs to be lonely. 

Everything smells like flowers and herbs, including Draco’s fingertips. 

There always seem to be cats or elves under foot, and there’s often a visitor around somewhere. 

The roses bloom in the summer, but somehow there are always wildflowers. _Everywhere._

Draco barely remembers what it was like to pass an entire day without receiving or bestowing at least a dozen kisses. This is how he wakes up most mornings—held, as much and for as long he wants. And there is sex. _A lot of it._

He thinks he’ll always be a little amazed each time he steps over the threshold to this place. It’s the safest place he has ever known, and this is where he lives. This is who he belongs to. 

It’s morning, and Draco is terribly, irrevocably, deeply, perfectly _happy._

 

 

_No, words are a language_

_It doesn’t deserve such treatment_

_And all of my stumbling phrases never amounted to anything worth this feeling_

_All this heaven never could describe such a feeling as I'm hearing_

_Words were never so useful_

_So I was screaming out a language that I never knew existed before_

_— Florence and the Machine, “All This and Heaven Too”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too many people to thank. Lee for helping me spark this idea by hollering about this pairing with me back when there was like, no one else interested in talking to us about it; Bel for the amazing beta work; Savvy and Doc for squeeing at me on twitter and making me feel like a celebrity every time I posted; hoomhumhobbit for live blogging her reads of this fic and motivating me in a BIG way; And all of you who have been leaving me the most wonderful comments, cheering me on, loving these guys as much as I do, and just having fun on this journey with me. 
> 
> I chose to end the fic on a Draco-POV chapter because this was always a story about Draco. I waffled about this, because I didn't want to leave Neville out in the cold, but hopefully I succeeded in not doing that! I may add more to this later (as a series! this is totally the last chapter I PROMISE), I have lots of little ideas for future ficlets and moments. Lots of smutty interludes I'd be happy to play with!
> 
> I'm happy to share a couple head canons and details not explored in the fic: 
> 
> -The 4 cats are named: Juliet, Thistle, Regina, and Squish.  
> -Neville's tattoo is a tangle of vines that, when he and Draco meet again, hold the following objects: A D.A. coin, a pair of worn gardening gloves, the cornerstone of Terrace House, a Gryffindor crest, and a remembrall. By the time the epilogue happens, he has added a heart set in a bouquet of wildflowers.  
> -Hermione's department is one of her own invention. Its goal is to ensure the happiness and well being of all magical beings.  
> -Pansy Parkinson tells her mother in law to call before she pops by in the future, enjoys a healthy sex life with her husband, and once her twins are weaned she decides being just the Lady of the manor is for the birds and becomes Hermione's right-hand in the Dept of CoMB. They never take a liking to each other. Ever. But they're really good at getting shit done together.  
> -Draco works from home and basically does daycare for Pansy's twins whenever Justin's mum isn't available or is getting on everyone's nerves. The twins grow up in two manor houses and love their uncles and their house elf friends. By the time they go to Hogwarts Draco feels comfortable setting foot on the grounds to go deal with their shenanigans—Pansy and Justin are out of town on their first trip alone together in over a decade. He does not have a conversation with Snape's portrait while he's there, it totally skeevs him out.  
> -Golda lives to be like 150, don't worry about Golda. She constantly tells Draco she refuses to die and let him take over the Gallipot, even though he runs it almost entirely and has bought her out of a little over half the business by the time she hits her 115th.  
> -Luna and Draco make a tidy sum from the sale of their humane wrackspurt control prototype, and Luna uses her half to go traveling. She meets Rolf Scamander a couple years later on her journeys.  
> -Dean Thomas becomes a regular fixture at Terrace House around the time Seamus Finnegan marries a nice Irish girl. Draco bitches at him to buck up and get over it and stop pining over a heterosexual ginger. He eventually introduces Dean to Master Llewellyn's nephew from America, and that's that on that.  
> -Narcissa Malfoy wants grandchildren. "Just PURCHASE a baby, Draco, you're successful enough!" "*MUMMY*, no!" 
> 
> I am on twitter @Meansgirlwrites


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